


Black hearted love

by Little_tortoise



Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Healing, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, I don't even know where this is going, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki Has Issues, OFC has issues, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sexual Violence, Trust Issues, she needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_tortoise/pseuds/Little_tortoise
Summary: An Elven Princess runs away from her past and her family. She finds refuge in Asgard and, accordingly to Frigga's last wish, helps to heal the wounded Dark Prince.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 130





	1. The cell

**Author's Note:**

> Um - Hello, everyone.  
> This is my first fiction, so... I'm pretty nervous.  
> English is not my mother language, please be mercifull with misspelling and grammar errors.
> 
> The title is from the song "Black hearted love" by P.J. Harvey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an Elf enters a prison.

The door shuts behind her with a loud thud. A cold air flow has shut it.

She is now surrounded by darkness and can’t even see her own hand. No light passes through the mere arrowslit responsible for the air flow that has shut the heavy door. This room, however situated on top of a high tower, far from the inhabited aisle, makes her think of a dungeon. A dungeon. And its prisonner. He deserves to be here, doesn’t he, after what he’s done ? _They_ said she would be safe, that _he_ would be inoffensive. They said he needed to be healed. She hears nothing apart from her own breath. And _his_ breath, whizzy and effortful. Unsure, she takes one step, then another, to the middle of the room.

The door opens and a guard comes in with a torch, and she lets a relieved sigh out.

"Thank you. I have to see what I’m doing".

"Apologies, your Highness", says the man. He hooks the torch on the wall and steps back to the heavy wooden door.

Behind him comes a maid carrying a tray of food. Just a bowl of broth and a pot of water.

"Leave that here", she commands, pointing a stool.

The maid obeys and leaves. She approaches the narrow bed in the middle of the room and examines the man lying on it. Eyes, shut tight, eyebrows knitted in a frown, lips pursed, sweaty dark hair clinging to his temples. She tries to touch his forehead with featherlight fingers ans finds his skin burning.

"I need more water. Go fetch that maid."

"But your Highness, the Allfather said –"

She turns to the guard and repeats. "Fetch that maid. Now."

The guard still doesn’t move, so she straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and glares. After a moment of hesitation, the man sighs and exits the room. She then moves to the stool and fills a goblet with water, and returns too the bed. Sitting on the edge, she tucks a hand under the wounded man’s head and lifts it, approaching the goblet of his lips.

"Drink. Drink, my lord."

The patient takes and swallows a sip of liquid, then falls back on his pillow, as if lifting his head has exhausted him. She puts the goblet aside and pulls the dark green blankets covering his chest, in order to look at his healing wound. Sweat covers his skin, his breath is labored. A long, angry red scar runs on his sternum. She brushes his skin with her fingers. The wound is clean, showing no sign of infection, yet it's as hot as embers and the man is burning with fever. She begins to wipe the sweat off of his skin with a wash cloth, and her patient shivers at the contact.

''Shhh.'' She cooes. ''You'll feel better when you're clean.''

She can't help comparing him and her brother. They are not so different, yet the Dark Prince is more slender, with lean muscles and pale skin, even if he appears to be tanned, compared to Nuada's alabaster skin. Their main difference is in their hair: while the Elven wear a long, silvery-white mane, Prince Loki's curls are raven-black. For the moment, they are sweaty and filthy and she wonders how they'll look when he's recovered. She hasn't seen his eyes yet. He's famous for his green eyes, and she's both curious and uneasy to fully meet him when the fever reduces.

As she wonders impatiently when that bloody water is coming, the door opens and a tall woman, with a crown of grey braids and a greyish blue gown enters: Eir, the Healer goddess. A maid behind her carries a basin. Eir sits on the other side of the bed and smiles. She takes a rag, damps it in the basin and gently taps on the patient’s forehead.

"He’s burning."

"He’s strong", Eir answers. "Don’t worry, Princess. He's out of danger now. He shall be fine, he just needs to rest."

"It’s so cold in here. Won’t it get him worse ?"

Eir watches her patiently.

"I mean, he might catch a cold." Eir has a motherly smile.

"You’re so nice, child. But while you should wear warmer clothes, he doesn’t fear the cold. Actually, I’m quite sure it will help him to recover quickly."

Eir stands and walks towards the door.

"Shall I leave a maid with you for the night ?"

"No, thank you. He’s harmless. And there’s a guard outside."

Eir watches her as she can see through her. It lasts a few moments and she’s felling uneasy under her gaze. Eir knows of her past, has ment her injuries on her arrival in Asgard. Then the Healer goddess says : "You well know, your Highness, that you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. A nurse will take care of him."

"I know. But I have a great favor to repay the Allfather, and the Allmother trusted me to take care of him. I only intend to show that I am grateful."

Her voice is unsure. She’s not lying, though. Only… he scares her. Almost the way her brother scares her.

"Right. Good night, then."

Eir departs with a smile and closes the door behind her. She’s still sitting on one side of the bed. He stirrs and sighs next to her, brows furrowing. His eyelids flutters, and he half opens his eyes. She smiles, greeting his wake.

"Ljosalfr…", he mumbles hoarsly.

"Shhh. Don't speak. You'll only tire yourself out."

He closes his eyes again, and whimpers.

"Would you like to drink ? Some broth ?" she asks gently.

He nods weakly. She goes to the wardrobe in a corner of the room and picks a pillow in it before returning to the bed.

"Give me your hands, I’m going to help you sit, if you can."

He gets his hands from under the blankets, and all words get caught in her throat. He’s wearing heavy bracelets at his wrists. Like handcuffs, but no chain joins his wrists. She blinks, and whispers for herself : ‘’What’s that ?’’

‘’To prevent magic’’, he mutters.

She snorts in a very unladylike manner. So though he's badly wounded and barely conscious, he is aware that he's treated like a prisonner? This is insane.

"What's the point ? You cant even sit straight. Well, there, let’s sit, Prince. Help me."

She bends towards him and carefully passes his arms over her head.

"Hold on to me."

She pulls back and, as they both manage to lift him, she quickly slips the pillow she just grabed under his back, then lays him on it so that he’s half-sitting in his bed. He winces and groans.

"How do you feel, Prince ?"

"Split open."

The answer is barely audible, more of a rale than of a whisper. She picks the bowl of now tepid broth and lifts it to his mouth.

"Here. Drink."

He lifts his head and obeys, then slumps back, eyes closed.

"I’m leaving you to sleep."

"No."

She tilts her head. "What ?"

"Need to…"

"What ?", she asks again.

"Pee."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in.

Allright.

She knew she would have to help him for such basic needs. Not only for food and chatting.

So she stands and goes picking the chamber pot that’s tossed against a stone wall, then brings it to the bed. She lifts the blankets and places the pot where he needs it to be, then she puts the blankets back. He’s stark naked. She must have guessed. She’ll have to have him get dressed as soon as possible.

"Going to wet the sheets" he rumbles lowly, half lifting an eyelid. "Need to hold it."

She takes another breath. She has heard of him, even in another realm, and she knows where he wants it to go. The Trickster god. The Cheater god. Always making fun of others and chasing women in the corridors. She takes his hands and places them on his crotch, above the sheets and blankets.

"It’s just fine like this, your Highness."

He groans and closes his eyes, the ghost of a smile on his lips, or so she thinks.

"Good night, your Highness. I won’t be far away, my room’s just next to yours."

He doesn’t answer, so she thinks he’s asleep, and leaves to her room where her meal is cooling on a tray. All this had been one of the last decisions of the Allmother, taken the morning of her death, almost as she had known she’d die. She had sent for her and had explained her her task : the Allmother had foreseen that the Dark Prince would be seriously wounded. That he would be on the gates of Helheim, but would not pass. That when he would have recovered, the Allfather would send him back in the dungeons, for all of eternity. It had taken all the persuasion of Frigga to obtain that the Prince would instead be kept here, with her as a nurse and a companion, because his gallant fighting would have been his redemption. When she had ask why the Allmother had chosen her, she had just answered, "Your heart."

And there she is, in this tower, sharing these chambers with the prisonner. There are a few rooms – a sitting room with a sofa, a desk and a wall covered in bookshelves, a small bathroom, her bedroom with a small but comfortable bed and a cosy armchair beside the fireplace, and the Prince’s room, that looks like a prison, with its bare walls and lack of furniture. That, too, is part of the bargain : if he behaves, if he makes amends, if he improves, he will be allowed to move to other chambers, with a real bedroom, a large bathroom and a study. An illusion of normal life. She is to tend to his wounds, help him to feed and wash while he is too weak, chat, read for him and provide him books, even play music if he wants. She is to earn his trust. Calm down his anger. Heal his soul. The Prince is said prone to nightmares : that’s why she has to live next to him. Truth be said, she’s scared to have to wake him up from a nightmare. She is affraid of him. She is uneasy with warriors and after all, he’s very much like her brother, despising humans, even if they have different reasons.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Gullveig, the maid the Allmother gave her when she first came in Asgard, coming to pick up the remnants of her simple supper. She smiles as the girl offers to help dressing her fo the night, and silently dismisses her, as well as she tells the guard to spend the night outside her door. She always undresses alone, and her modesty loathes to be naked in front of anyone, even her maid, all the more since – . She willingly stops this memory, not wanting to remember. It’s difficult not to, anyway, since she has fled away from him to seek protection in Asgard, which Odin had rapidly granted her. She knows she’s to be a pawn in the Allfather’s strategy, but for now, she doesn’t care much. She feels safer than in the past few months, even everything around her reminds her of where she is, and of where she isn’t, and why she isn’t.

While thinking, she undresses and puts her nightgown, then gets into her bed and blows out the candle. But in a strange room, spleep doesn’t come easy. It’s so dark in here, there is no noise but her breathing. She misses her old bedroom, back home, even if she feels childish for it. So she re-lights her candle and picks a book she borrowed in the library : it’s a chronicle of the Kings of Nidavellir, and she hopes it’ll be tedious enough to snooze. And after an hour reading the litany of Dwarf-Kings’ names, she feels her brain numb and her eyes shut by their own volition.

That’s when a strangled scream in the next chamber startles her.

The Prince. He’s dreaming.

She hastingly puts on her robe and shawl, because it’s so cold in his prison, and she’s not properly dressed.

Catching her candle, she hurries to his room : he is contorting in his bed, face tensed, teeth gritted. Letting down the light on the stool, she sits on the bed, takes his shouders, and gently shakes him. He only struggles more and seizes her arms, groaning, and she fears he might hit her in is feverish delirium, so she shakes him hard and calls him.

‘’Prince, wake up.’’

It does nothing. He is unconscious, and so strong in his struggle against his invisible enemy, he hurts her. So she shouts.

"Wake up !" And he opens his eyes and eyeing her, relaxes his hands.

"Where am I ?"

"You’re in your bed. You have a fever."

"Mother ?" He weakly takes her hand, eyes closed, brows knitted.

"Rest."

She helps him drink water, carresses his forehead to comfort him and brush the damp locks of his raven hair, and he sighs, savouring her cool touch.

"Mother, please stay", he mumbles when she gets up. She’s afraid of staying with him. But he’s so weak, how could he possibly harm her ? And his fever is so strong, he might be delirous again, need her during the night; she’d better stay close.

"As you wish. I’ll get my armchair in my room, and I’ll be right back."

She drags the piece of furniture from her room to the cell, then goes picking her pillow and duvet. On the morrow she’ll have a cot placed against a wall, because she might sleep a lot beside her patient. She makes herself as comfortable as possible, and manages to sleep.

She knows when the Dream begins.

She's on a moor, bathed in sun, and the wind unfurls her long silver hair. She's on a cliff over the sea, and the landscape reminds her of her home. Her dress gets tangled in the heather, and she doesn't care, reveling in its scent thats mingled with the spindrift. Everything is quiet, peaceful even, but - her chest tightens, as she feels inexplicably troubled.

And the dark, husky voice murmurs softly in her mind.

_Where are you, sister mine ?  
_

_No no no no no._

He can’t possibly find her. Even in her dream, she knows it's only a dream, and he can't find her. Not here. She's safe.

_Oh, yes. I will find you, sister mine. And then, you will never leave me again._

The endearment, both poetical and sarcastic, makes her feel sick. The only way to escape him is in front of her. In the emptiness at her feet. Better this than him. She takes a step and falls.

When she startles up with a gasp, the Prince is awake, face turned towards her, and watches her patiently.

‘’I know you’’, he croaks. ‘’You’re the Elven Princess from Midgard.’’


	2. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sleep does not help resting.

Only sleep eases his pain. Most of the time, he’s unconscious, and grateful for it. But in the few moments he’s awake, the pain is quite unbearable, like a white-hot blade in his chest, though he’s not even able to scream, because of his weakness. In the first moments, he has thought to be dead. But when one’s dead, they aren’t in pain, are they ? Why does he feel so hot ? Fever ? Poison ?

There are a few impressions. Someone giving him water. His relief at the cool liquid in his burning throat. Someone – how many people ? – grabbing his legs and armpits, carefully lifting him. And he passes away because of the pain. A reddish light, voices. He can’t focus on what they’re saying. He cracks an eyelid and catches a glimpse of a grey-haired woman. Eir ? The Soul Forge ? This can’t be. Last he remembers, he was lying in ashes on Svarthalfheimr. He manages a whimper, and she softly watches him, smiling and closing his eyes with her fingers, sending him to a deep, numbing slumber.

When he finally decides that he’s alive, he doesn’t know where he is. This is a dark place. He’s lying on a rather comfortable, though narrow bed, and he’s still burning with fever. But the air in this place is cold, and offers a sharp contrast when entering his nose and filling his lungs. He welcomes this cold. He feels too hot. The heat seems to radiate from his chest to the very end of his limbs, to his brain, making his skin feel impossibly tight. When finally – how ? – he happens to find his arms out of the blankets, relief washes over him, for the cold air eases the impossible heat in him.

He is alive, but he wishes he was dead, because his dreams torment him so often that he doesn’t rest. He dreams of Mother, of her death, though he hasn’t witnessed it, and drowns in guilt.

_I didn’t know –_

_I wanted it to find –_

Soft, cool hands touch his forehead. _Mother_. Mother is here, healing him like when he was a little boy. He’s not dying, she's not dead. He only has a fever, and everything is going to be allright. Mother gives him water, helps him to sit up and feeds him. Washes his skin with a cool cloth. Helps him to urinate. Except, when he wants to catch a glimpse of her, he doesn’t see her beautiful face and honey hair. No, when he cracks an eye open, Mother turns into a mucher younger woman. A pale, so pale woman. White skin, white hair, pale grey eyes. A Ljosalfr. Why there ? Is he on Alfheimr ? Odin must have cast him away, him, the unworthy son – What are these markings on her nose and cheeks ? He knows something about that. But what ? His brain is too numb, he’s dozing again, he feels so, so tired –

Mother.

_She’s fighting the beast, the monster created by the Dökkalfr._

_He knows it. He must get to her._

_This time, he has managed to escape his cell, and he runs through endless corridors. When he finally enters her chambers, she’s already dead, lying on the floor, Odin bent over her, and an Einheri grabs his arms to prevent his getting closer. ‘’Orders of the Allfather. You’re not allowed in here.’’ He struggles, wants to kill the soldier, kill Odin, kill everyone._

Someone shakes him, and pain radiates everywhere. He groans, winces, and calls Mother again. For Mother is here again, in this room, and is going to tend to him.

"Mother, please stay."

"As you wish", she answers. Her voice isn’t the same, or maybe he thinks so because of the fever. But he’s relieved. He won’t be alone tonight, and Mother will stay up with him. How much he regrets those last words ! How much he regrets to have hurt her ! He’ll tell her in the morning. Darkness takes him again.

_________________________________________________

This is not Svartalfheimr, obviously. He must be back on Asgard, though he hopes not. Who else but Thor could know where to seek his body ? He’s not in his bedroom. Not back in his cell, either. It looks like a dungeon, with bare stone walls, and an arrowslit instead of a window. There is no windowpane, so he understands why the cold air flows in the dark room. The fireplace is empty. No furniture but his narrow bed, a stool and a lamp on a stool. And, on his right, an armchair on which is piled a duvet. _Wait_. Even in the darkness, he can see there is a foot, poking out of the thick quilt. A very white, small, feminine foot. For once, he feels like he can stay awake longer than a few seconds, so he observes the form buried beneath it’s cosy, warm envelope. A woman, definitely. She turns slightly, and he can see her pale face.

He’s _dreamt_ of a Ljosalfr. And there she is, curled in an armchair in this very room. With each breath, mist escapes lightly from her mouth, remembering him of the cold that doesn’t bother him. She seems to be comfortable enough though, for she’s sound asleep. He stares, and noticing once again the markings on her face, he tries to think clearly.

A Ljosalfr. With scars on her cheeks and nose. Royal markings. He knows the Queen of Alfheimr has no daughter. So where is she from ?

And then, it’s as if he’s struck by lighting. The Ljosalfar that have been living, then hiding on Midgard for millenia. The Tribe of Bethmoora. King Balor had three children : the twins, Nuada and Nuala, and another daughter born a few centuries after them, after the Truce between Efves and humans.

What was her name ? He can’t remember.

Why isn’t she on Midgard ?

Since when has she been on Asgard ?

He doesn’t know much of them, only that King Balor truefully respected the Truce, and that his son was an irritable, arrogant, fierce warrior. Her brow furrows in her sleep, she sighs and whimpers. It seems that he’s not the only one to have bad dreams. She awakes with a start, gasping, and turns to him.

"I know you. You’re the Elven Princess".

His voice is hoarse from lack of use and exhaustion. She suddenly realizes she’s slouching and sits straight. Her scent drifts to his nostrils : she smells of heather, hawthorn flower and honey, something sunny and warm. He takes a deep inhale, his nostrils fluttering.

"You are right, Prince. We haven’t been properly introduced, I’m –"

"To Hel with propriety. You were sleeping in my bedroom", he croaks.

She huffs and stands, chin high, eyes gleaming with - indignation?

"You had a strong fever and I feared to leave you alone. You’re very welcome, Prince. As it seems you are much better this morning, I shall take my leave and break my fast in my own room."

He chuckles, then winces in pain, for contracting his abdominal muscles makes his whole torso quite uncomfortable.

"Irascible little minx, are you ?"

"Unsufferable spoilt brat, are you ?" she shots back. Eyes wide, blushing, she lifts a hand to her mouth.

"Oh, dear. Where are your manners, I wonder ?" he mumbles, closing his eyes and drifting once again to sleep.

________________________________________

She storms in her room, slamming the door shut, and pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index. She gets to the bathroom and runs herself a hot bath. While the tub files, she can’t help pacing back and forth. What an arrogant, untolerable man ! Never has she been adressed this way ! She has always tried to be proper and do whatever Father expected from her, as a princess. Her sister and her have been raised to be modest, polite, calm and wise women. Nuala is the very picture of what a princess is meant to be, with her schooled features and shy smiles, and she, the youngest sibling, tries in every way to imitate her sister and control her temper. She has most often managed to behave politely – but this perfect stranger has made her lose her calm.

She slips in the water, welcoming its soothing heat.

Never has she spoken so boldly to any man. She barely recognizes herself. It angers her all the most, and she even hits the water in frustration, splashing around.

"Milady ? Are you well ?" the maid calls from behind the door.

She closes her eyes. Breathes deeply. _Calm down._

"Yes, thank you, Gullveig."

"Do you need help ?"

"No, I’ll manage. Prepare a warm dress and leave it on my bed."

She lies back in the tub and tries to relax, closing her eyes and focusing on her breath to numb her brain and feelings. By the time the water cools, her meditation has worked her anger and frustration out. She gets out of the tub, dries and, passing in her bedroom, dresses in the thick woolen dress Gullveig has set on the bed. The dark blue fabric contrasts with her pallid skin and silvery hair : this color has always flattered her siblings and her. She’s going to return to the Prince’s cold, dark room, so she chooses a pair of woolen stockings, then wears her boots to keep her feet warm. Suddenly, she decides to share her breakfast with the Prince. There is enough for two on the tray, and in his state, he likely won’t eat much, but she hopes he’ll understand her gesture of good-will. Frigga trusted her with this particular mission, didn’t she ?

When she enters the room, she curses the dim light in which she can just make out the shape of the stool.

"Do you really have to be so noisy ?" grumbles a husky voice.

She joyfully sits on his bed, and chirps.

"Look, your Highness, we started very unfavourably. I’m to stay here with you."

While chatting merrily, she butters a slice of bread, then lifts it to his mouth. He bites and chews. It’s so intimate, to feed him like this, almost like a lover. Or a husband. She’s never known any of that and it makes her blush.

"We’d better get along together. No more grumpiness, will you ?"

"You’ve sure been told I’m bad-tempered."

He swallows, then whispers, abysmal sorrow filling his voice : "You should have let me die."

"I wasn’t up to decide. The Lady Eir has healed you, and your Mother chose me for helping you to recover."

"Don’t speak of her. You didn’t know her. I never saw you."

He sounds bitter. She watches him closing his eyes and turning his face away, faking sleep.

When he wakes up again, the Princess and a maid are kneeling in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire. They’ve brought candles to light his cell. A bucket of steaming water waits beside his bed, as well as a basin, a piece of soap and some wash clothes. The maid turns her face to him and bows her head in respect. The Princess notices, and turns to him.

"You’re awake, Prince. Gullveig here is going to help me wash you. The fever left you covered in sweat."

He’d prefer wash himself instead of being taken care of like a baby, but he feels too weak. It’s frustrating. So he tells them.

"It’s infantilizing."

She lets out a light-hearted chuckle. "I understand, believe me. We only intend to help. You must recover."

"What for ?" he bursts out, "being kept in here for the next centuries ? I told you : you should have let me die. Anything but another custody."

He feels nothing but pain, grief and despair. He can’t even understand why the girl is so kind to him.

"You seem to be better today. Still feverish, though."

"I'm not fine", he snarls.

He flinches when he feels the warm, wet flannel on his forehead, and turns to watch intently at the Elven. Her pale skin seems even paler in contrast to her night blue dress. The fabric hugs her chest and arms, but the high collar keeps her warm and modest. Her silver hair is worn in a simple braid hanging over her shoulder, nothing like the elaborate hairstyles of Asgardian women. She looks so innocent. As he stares, she lifts her cold grey eyes towards his, and blushes as her gaze meets his. Such a delicious little treat. He can’t wait to taste her lips and skin. For as he must be locked in this cell, he might as well try not to being bored.

The maid stands on the other side of the bed, lowers the sheets to his waist and starts washing his shoulders and chest. His eyes are still on the Princess : he can feel she’s ill-at-ease, and he enjoys playing like this. His body responds to the feeling of the warm wash-cloth on his skin, and as the maid discards the sheets entirely to wash his lower half, the Princess’s eyes meet his erect manhood. He is about to smile smugly, for he knows he is well-built, when he catches her expression. She abruptly stands up, frozen, eyes cast down, body rigid apart from her arms that quickly shot to her chest for self-protection. Fear is easy to read on her pale face and he immediately worries. She’s obviously terrified, not just a bit afraid yet curious as the few maiden he’s had. She's not even breathing.

What has happened to her ? It must be terrible. He has seen women in this state ; slaves, mostly, many centuries ago. Slaves that had been raped. _Norns_. Despite of his pain and Gullveig’s scolding, he manages to sit and turn his back to her, legs dangling outside the bed.

"Princess, would you please send for some clothes while I finish washing?"

She stays stiff, not answering, and Gullveig notices at last that there is something wrong. She walks around the bed and lays a gentle hand on her mistress’ shoulder. She flinches.

"Your Highness, are you allright ?"

The Princess quickly puts herself together, wipes her hand on her face and smiles weakly.

"Yes – I – I’m sorry. What is it you were telling me ?"

"Prince Loki wishes to get dressed. Would you please send the guard while I’ll finish washing him ?"

Barely breathing, she nods weakly and exits the room.

Turning to Gullveig, Loki asks with a honeyed smile : "Now tell me, love. Why has your mistress come in Asgard ?"


	3. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sleep isn't easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and leaving kudos!

By the time a maid finally brings clothes in Loki’s cell, the princess hasn’t come back yet. He puts the dark breeches and the green tunic, and is relieved to be dressed, for he feels less of an invalid.

Gullveig hasn’t told much about Princess Fionnghuala, as she has called her. She has been in Asgard for less than a year, and the Allmother was very fond of her. She was of the ancient blood of Bethmoora, an Elven tribe who had been living on Midgard for millenia. She was very discreet, seemed to like being on her own, had very simple tastes, which caused some ladies of the court to doubt she was indeed a princess, and scornfully gossip about her.

When he had asked the maid what could have possibly terrified the Princess, she’d been unable to answer, but had said the princess was very modest and never allowed her to help her bathing nor dressing.

Eventually, after a few hours, the Princess comes back with some books, and sits comfortably in her armchair.

"So, Prince, would you prefer poetry ? A novel ? Tales from Midgard ?" she asks merrily, as if nothing had occured.

He watches her carefully, then retorts : "I’m sorry for having made you feel uneasy, earlier."

She glowers, and he sees her throat work as she swallows hard.

"I do not wish to talk about it."

"You know, I’m a mean person. But I won’ t hurt you."

"I said : I do not wish to talk about it. Ever."

She intends to appear angry, her voice dry. She’s only terrified, traumatized, because she must have been badly abused. He knows that. He’s been tortured by the Mad Titan for months, after all, he knows it better than anyone.

He finally smiles sadly, to let her understand that he knows about her lies.

"Well, as you wish, my lady. You may call me by my name. Can I call you Finnghuala ? We can consider each other as equals, after all. Royalty, but no heir to the throne."

His tone and smile are perfectly cordial. She gives him a wary look. He practically hears her thoughts : so fickle, so untrustworthy. After a few seconds, she silently nods.

"Excellent. What books have you brought ?"

And so the day ends. They pretend to be fine. She doesn’t ask about his mother, he doesn’t ask about her past. They seem to be grateful enough for this semblance of peace. She reads to him, and he finally dozes, lulled by the sound of her words. He seems so peaceful, for once, and she thinks that the fever must be gone, but she doesn’t check, out of fear to disturb him.

So she leaves him alone, and goes to the two Einherjar guarding their door, outside the chambers.

"Go fetch Gullveig", she instructs.

Both men exchange a short glance, before one departs. When the maid enters with a quiet knock, she’s sitting on her sofa, trying to read a treaty about Asgardian flora and only being able to gaze at the illustrations.

"Ah, Gullveig. The cell is so cold, I’ve been freezing all day. We have to put carpets on the floor. Please try to find some – no, several – thick ones, it’ll be better. I’ll also need a small table and two chairs."

"As you wish, your Highness. I’ll do it right now."

The maid turns and steps towards the door.

"And a cot, too."

Gullveig turns around and tilts her head silently.

"I said I would need a cot."

"For whom ?"

"Me."

"In Prince Loki’s room, too, your Highness ?"

"Yes."

Gullveig’s eyes narrow. She swallows, then speaks carefully.

"Do you think it’s wise ?"

"Are you telling me what I’m to do ?"

The girl bows her head and adds, "It’s just that… You seemed so distressed, this morning."

"I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. The Allmother has personnaly chosen me to care after her son, and if he keeps having awful dreams at night, I might better sleep next to him, or I won’t sleep at all."

"It is not proper", the maid says.

"And I’m very aware of that, too. No one will know unless you tell them. So if my reputation came to be tarnished, I would know who is to blame. If someone asks, say it’s for you."

Gullveig blanches and mutters an apology. But Finnghuala knows her maid is right. It’s improper that a princess of an ancient royal bloodline sleep in a man’s room, alone with him. But she’s already soiled and ruined beyond repair, so why should she care ?

_Sister mine. Mine alone._

She shakes the memory, gets to the window that opens towards the mountains, even if they can’t be seen in the night, and leans out, inhaling deepfully. Heavy snowflakes silently fall on Asgard from the sky. It is totally dark, no light comes from the sky. She shivers with cold, but smiles anyway, for she has always loved the snow, its crispy sound under her boots, its coldness on her cheeks, its wet yet invigorating smell. As a child, she had loved throwing snowballs at her siblings. Nuala would scold her because the snow would ruin her silk gowns, but Nuada would laugh and, though twice her age, would engage a battle with his little sister. Back at that time, he wasn’t so aloof and disdainful. He was even rather pleasant. When had he turned to that heartless –

_No no no no no._

_Shut your mind, or he will find you._

_Think of something else._

_Focus. Focus on the snow. Breath._

Turning her face towards the skies, she lets the snowflakes drop on her skin and melt on her cheeks. She sticks her tongue out and tries to catch snowflakes, just like when she was a child, many centuries ago. No one is near to tell her to shut her mouth, and she feels free, and it makes her smile, at last. She focuses on the smell in the air and is hit by the sudden awareness that it makes her think of Loki : he smells like cold, like snow, like winter. Of that, and of pine resin. It brings images of deep, dark forests to her mind, just like home, or just like the trees covering the mountains of Asgard. She’ll have to go there, when Loki’s health is better and he can be left alone for a moment. She’s been in this realm for a few months, and even if she has been able to enjoy frequent walks in the Allmother’s gardens, she longs for the deep shadow, the smell of trees and of humus, the snap of twigs and the murmur of the wind.

An annoying prattling pulls her out of her musing as several maids enter the chambers, so, closing the window, she hurries towards them to scold them, for the Prince is resting. They are carrying the carpets and furniture she asked for.

"Wait here", she demands, before entering the cell.

It’s completely dark inside it and she grasps a light before entering. The fire and the candles died and she only can hear a short mouth-breathing.

"Loki, are you in pain ?"

"You left me. I was alone."

He seems to be on the verge of panicking. She runs to his bed and sits close to him. Eyes full of tears and wide in terror, he grabs her hands, as to ensure she will stay.

"Shhh, calm down. I was in my room, I didn’t want to disturb you."

"You left me !" he cries out. "You left me and I dreamt. And you weren’t here to help me out."

She touches his forehead with the back of her fingers, and finds his skin hot. He’s still feverish. So she gently wipes his face with a wet cloth, shushing him.

"Your nightmare appears to be really horrid. What did you dream of ?"

"Torture", he whispers, as if saying it aloud would make it real, or more excruciating.

She knows it too well, these feeling of dread and absolute loneliness.

"I’m sorry", she whispers back, "I’m sorry I left you. I’m here now."

"Don’t leave me tonight."

She sits straighter, conflicted. What’s in his mind ? She has already planned to sleep here, but – if he asks it, it’s different, isn’t it ?

"I’m begging you."

"No deceit. I don’t trust you."

"I promise."

"That changes nothing. I don’t trust you."

He sighs, "You’re right not to. I wouldn’t either."

She gazes at him in concern. _Guilt. Self-loathing. I know these fellings, too._ She must distract his attention from his distress. Suddenly remembering the maids in the next room, she stands straight, smiles brightly, exclaims, "I have a surprise for you, your Highness", and opens the door.

The maids enter, carrying the carpets and furniture. And as she instructs them on the way she wants them to arrange it all, he lays back dramatically on his pillow, chin towards the ceiling, grumbling about the annoyance. So, bending down next to him, she confesses in a low voice.

"In fact, it’s not for you. It’s for me. I’m making myself comfortable."

She gives him an impish smile and he genuinely laughs.

"You little rascal. How dare you invade my hermitage ?"

He hates how pathetic he sounded when she entered his cell. He had been in the throes of terror for what felt like eternity. All the dread and excruciating pain Thanos had inflicted him after his fall from the Bifrost had overflowed him once again in his sleep. It was pitch black when he had woke up alone, in this dark cell that was even worst, if possible, than Odin’s dungeons. And in his awakening, loneliness had been the worst thing, because there was nothing, no one to distract nor comfort him from his horrid memories. So he had cried, distraught and helpless, until she had entered the cell. He had pathetically clang to her, like a child, because he was both so upset and so relieved to see her.

And just a few moments after, a whirlwind of housemaids had entered upon her orders and converted his barren cell into a much more cozy room, with fluffy carpets on the floor, a small table and two chairs, and a tray of food. And a small cot.

He has feigned annoyance, because he is known for his bad temper, because he relucts to see so many people at once in his room, because he is stuck in his bed and felt helpless as a child. But truth be told – and as the God of Lies, he knows well about that – the Elf’s energy is utterly charming. She has planned this. She has been unpredictable, and he truly enjoys it. It’s refreshing.

When the maids finally leave she turns to him with a bright smile.

"Odin will disapprove", he finally says dryly.

"I don’t care. As I told you, it’s more about my being confortable than yours. I can’t spend my days in such a grim room. That will be my defense, if necessary."

"Mmmh."

He points out the cot against the wall on his right.

"And what about that ?"

She casts her eyes down, and he’s pretty sure she’s blushing, even if doesn’t see it in the dim light.

"I – I’ve been thinking – well, you have nightmares – "

"And so do you."

"Yes, I do. But – that’s not about me. You need to be helped out of your sleep. So the closer I am, the better I can help you."

He considers her face for a minute, and she quails in discomfort. As she opens her lips to say something, he smiles.

"It doesn’t bother me at all."

She breathes a huge sigh of relief. Obviously, she had feared to be rejected.

"Aren’t you hungry ? I certainly am. It smells good", he offers.

"There is a thick soup, bread, dried fruit. Do you need help to sit ?"

She helps him with another pillow behind his back, and he’s glad to feel better today, even if still a little feverish. She places her plate and food on the table and brings him the tray.

"Fionnghuala, can I ask you about Midgard ?"

She nods, her mouth full of soup.

"Where did you live ?"

"Ah, in an island humans call Ireland. I assume you know Midgard, do you ?"

"Yes, I do. Though my last visit there wasn’t… successful. Never mind. What does it look like ? Ireland ?"

"The highest cliffs, with raging waves underneath. Moorlands and crags, but also deep forests and lush meadows. There are so much creatures in the wild."

The soup is hot, rich, and tasty. He fights the urge to wolf it down.

"You seem to really love it."

"I do."

"Do you miss it ?"

"Sometimes."

She stares into space for a few seconds, then blinks and smiles apologetically.

"What about you, Loki ?"

He picks a large bit of bread, dips it in his soup, and takes his time to chew and swallow it.

"This tastes delicious. How long for have I not eaten ?"

He chuckles, then continues, "I traveled many times on Midgard, a few centuries ago, with my brother. Back at that time, humans revered us like gods."

"Us too", she whispers. "But we didn’t show. We mostly met them accidentally."

"In Norway, and in Iceland, we could stay among them, and they mostly welcomed us. But then I… stopped visiting."

"Why ?"

"I met a girl."

Suddenly, he remembers his sorrow and quiets.

"What happened ?" she asks carefully.

He sighs.

"What always happens with humans : she grew old and died."

She frowns with concern, so he adds : "What about you ? Never met a kind boy ?"

She chortles.

"Oh, no. My brother would prevent it."

"Overprotective, is he ?"

"No. I wouldn’t even be allowed to talk to one. He despises humans. Hates them, even. Wants to see all of them dead at his feet. Their feet are not worthy of treading the soil we walk on."

He lets out a sound of mocking approvement.

"What a pity I didn’t meet him when I tried to conquer Midgard. He could have been a useful allie."

"Don’t ridicule what I say, Loki. He’s hateful, evil."

It’s a warning. She’s affraid of him. There is something else she’s concealing. Something she’s not ready to share. He can smell lies like a hound smells blood. So he asks cautiously.

"Have you come here because of him ? Did you flee far away from him ?"

Eyes cast down, her lower lip trembling, she whispers a barely audible "Yes".

He doesn’t want to upset her. She needs time. When she’s ready, if she wants, she’ll talk. For now, and even if he’s been knowing her for only two days, he relishes in this semblance of normal life. He wants to pretend he’s not a prisonner in the only home he’s ever known. He wants to make her smile and chat friendly, because it eases his loneliness and suffering.

"Humans taught me to play chess", he suggests, "can you play ?"

She accepts, and seems delighted.

"I must warn you, Loki. I’m pugnacious, and a poor loser," she says with a mischievious smile.

"Then beat me, I dare you," he purrs.

She pays close attention that he plays fair, and scolds him when he attemps cheating. He genuinely enjoys the game. She’s clever, and he soon understands she’s better than him. That’s why he cheats, to tease her, distract her, make her lose her focus, but it’s all in vain. Still, he doesn’t regret losing, for he enjoys watching her puckish expression when she cries out, "Check mate ! I win !"

He tries to look bored, and knows he’s failing.

"You cheated, little minx. You took advantage of my fever."

She giggles.

"I had a lovely evening, Loki. Thank you for the game."

"My pleasure", he answers softly.

"It’s late."

She stands, and picks one of his pillows to help him lay down. Then she pokes the embers and adds a log in the fireplace.

"I’ll be back, I’m just going to get ready for night in my room. Here are some books."

She holds out a few volumes. He picks one, she puts the other ones on the floor, next to his headboard, and leaves.

He first thinks of flipping through his book while waiting for her, but changes his mind when remembering how unsettled she’s been in the morning. So he makes himself comfortable under the covers and shuts his eyes.

He must have drifted off without noticing, because it’s pitch-black when he wakes up, and he hears her moaning and whimpering.

She’s dreaming. Bad dreams, evidently, for she’s writhing in her bed, her eiderdown on the floor. Their beds are so close, that if he streches his arm, he can touch her. So he does, and lays a hand on her shoulder. He can feel her skin under the white nightgown. She’s shivering.

"Fionnghuala," he calls.

She wakes with a jolt and starts sobbing uncontrollably. He strokes her shoulder with his thumb and says, "That one seemed particularly atrocious."

She keeps sobbing, unable to speak.

"Come", he offers.

"What ?" she squeaks.

"Come and huddle. Push your bed next to mine."

"No !"

He clearly hears the panic in her voice.

"Fionnghuala. You’re practically freezing to death."

She stays silent. He can hear her sniff and shiver with cold. He snorts in irritation.

"By the Norns, woman, this is just about huddling for warmth ! Come here now and don’t bother me anymore."

"This is quite an invitation, your Highness", she spits.

But she pushes her cot next to his bed all the same, and gets back on it. He extends his right arm so she can lay her head on his shoulder, but she refuses and curls on her side, facing the wall. So he turns on his side, too, and curls around her. He wraps his arm around her waist and let his hand rest on the mattress. She stiffs. She’s so rigid she could be made of wood.

"What are you doing ?"

"I told you", he yawns. "Huddling for warmth. No deceit."

"Don’t touch me."

"Not until you beg me to."

"What ?" She jolts and tries to turn to him in indignation, but he closes him arm around her waist, chuckling, and she stops fidgeting.

"I don’t trust you", she whispers.

"I know. Sleep."

He can’t remember sleeping with a woman. He has always made clear that he wanted them to leave his rooms after he had fucked them. And yet, here he is, cuddling a woman he only wants to comfort. The truth is, cuddling comforts him, too. She’s soft and warm against his chest. He presses his nose in her hair and inhales her smell of hawthorn and heather. Her breathing progressively slows, and her body relaxes against him. And when he’s sure she’s sleeping, he allows himself to drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> Scandinavians in the Middle-Ages actually played a board game very close to chess, called "hnefatafl". It seems that this game fell into disuse when they brought back chess from their trade travels, which led Swedish merchants through Russia to the Black Sea.


	4. I have no friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which being bad-tempered might (not) be a flaw.

When she wakes up in the morning, she feels rested, at last. She’s confortably burrowed beneath the eiderdown and as she opens an eye, Loki is awake already, laying on his back and staring at the dawning light passing through the arrowslit. He turns his face to her, his cold emerald eyes unblinking. He stares, not pronouncing a word.

He’s intimidating, and she feels heat creeping in her cheeks out of embarrassment.

So she emerges from under the duvet, and putting her dressing gown on, she announces in a hushed voice, “I’m going to my room. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

She pushes her cot against the wall as a precaution, and only hears him groan in acknowledgement.

She has to hurry. Gullveig will soon be here. So she bathes and dresses quickly, and when the maid enters with a tray of food, she’s at her dressing table, brushing her long silver mane.

“Your Highness”, she greets happily, “you’re an early bird, as always. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Gullveig puts the tray on the table and gets behind her.

“Let me help you.”

The girl weaves her hair in a simple plait, as she knows her mistress wears it, and ties it with a blue ribbon.

“Gullveig, please go with the Prince and help him to get ready before breakfast.”

The maid bows her head and leaves.

A few minutes later, she comes back and offers, “My Lady, if you will?”

Loki is already sipping a cup of tea when she enters. The tray is in his lap and her food lays on the table. Warmth spreads from a roaring fire.

“You look better this morning.”

He nods.

“No nightmares this night. Not mine, at last.”

She casts her eyes down, memories surging in her mind.

_Nuada caresses her cheek and neck. “Sister mine”, he says in a dark voice, “you know I much I love you.”_

She shakes her head, shutting her mind, and swallows.

“You’ve been very kind”, she replies. “Thank you.”

He grunts.

They eat in silence for a while, then he says bluntly: “They say that the twins – your siblings – are lovers. Is it true?”

She blushes instantaneously.

“It is”, she whispers.

“I’m not easily shocked, Fionnghuala, but maybe incest is… cultural? In Asgard it would certainly be considered as – “

“No, it isn’t.”

“What isn’t?”

“Elves do not lay with their sisters.” _Even if_ he _does._

“So? Does your father, King Balor, approve?”

She scoffs.

“No, of course he doesn’t. My brother says that we are the last of our kind, that there is no match worthy of our bloodline.”

She calls him “brother”, because saying his name out loud is almost like conjuring him in this room, and she can’t afford this.

“And your sister? Does she… agree to this?”

She nods silently, eyes down in shame.

“They are as good as husband and wife. They say that as twins, they are two halves of the same being.”

She tries desperately to choke back her memories, her gut tighten. Nuada’s smoky voice whispering sickening love words in her ear, his breath fanning against her skin. _Sweet sister, so beautiful... Unrivalled…_

“You’re afraid of him, that is why you came here. Does Nuala scare you, too? Did they hurt you?”

“She’s likely barren,” she whispers, throat tight. “I’m the only other female in the family.”

She feels like she is about to vomit and when she dares looking up at him, his eyes are hard and filled with revulsion, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“That is why I ran away”, she finishes in a weak voice. She swallows, then ads, “Now don’t ask me again.”

There is a silence, but he seems persistent.

“Did he force – “

“Don’t ask. I beg you.”

She can’t bear lifting her eyes to his, due to her shame and terror, but she knows he’s staring. He must be repelled. Who wouldn’t? She swallows hard. By refusing to answer, she has silently confessed the truth. She’s dishonoured. Ruined to anyone. Doomed to be a fugitive and an object of pity and gossip. Her eyes sting with tears she tries to choke back.

He clears his throat, and makes an attempt in small talk.

“Well, let’s think of something else. Have you made acquaintances since you’ve been here?”

 _Oh, by the Tuatha Dé Dannan._ Must he always embarrass her?

How can she answer without insulting a Prince of Asgard? She doesn’t like Asgardians. They reject her because she is a stranger, because she is a refugee. The courtiers are haughty and arrogant, only valuing wealth and power, neither of which she possesses anymore. She’s afraid of the men, judging them rude and brutal. Women despise her because of her modest dresses and plain braids. But she can’t renounce her Elfin style because of Asgardians, can she? It would be self-treason. Besides, it is quite helpful to go unnoticed if she’s not overdressed. But she can hear them gossiping behind her back whenever she has to attend to a banquet or an audience.

“Everyone has been very kind to me.”

He gives her a mischievious smile.

“Come now. You know I am the God of Lies.”

She doesn’t answer. She knows it. He has sworn not to touch her, yet he has pressed his entire body against hers during the night. _Be honest with yourself. You liked it. He kept you warm and safe from dreams._ Though, she straightens and lifts her chin, and gives him a defiant look. And deliberately changes the subject.

“Do you feel strong enough to try and stand up, today?”

He stares intently, still grinning inscrutably.

“Why not?”

He seems pleasant enough today, yet there is something in his smile and gaze that troubles her. A lingering anger. Nuada had this look, too, whenever he was frustrated. Why would Loki not be frustrated? He’s locked by his father in a dungeon, disabled by a healing wound that still makes him suffer, wearing handcuffs that prevent his magic, forced to endure the company of a feeble, weeping foreigner like her… She would be dissatisfied, were she him.

She comes next to him while he sits on the edge of his bed, and stretches her arms to him. He grabs her forearms and leaning on her, puts his weight on his legs. When he raises to full height, he winces and groans. Straightening his spine is obviously painful. She smiles in encouragement, craning her neck to look him in the eye, because he is impossibly tall, then gets on his side and carefully passes his arm over her shoulders as a support. He hisses when she lifts his arm.

“I’m sorry”, she whispers.

He stiffs a few seconds, then takes a tentative step. And another.

“Very good, Loki!” she praises.

She can hear him gritting his teeth.

“Are you in pain?”

“No”, he growls.

“What is it?”

She barely has time to turn them both towards the bed before his knees give in and he collapses, wincing and cursing under his breath. He falls on his side on the edge of the bed and can’t hold a loud groan. She has tried to soften his fall, but he’s so much heavier than her.

“I’m sorry Loki. Please, turn on your back, let me have a look at your wound.”

“What for? You’re not even a healer.”

But he turns all the same, and putting his weight on his arms, crawls back on his pillows. She tries to help him, but he growls.

“You have to feed and regain strength. Show me your wound.”

“No.”

“Would you rather I fetch Eir?”

“Yes, go away. Let a healer take care of me.”

He’s wincing, eyes closed. She lets an exasperated breath through her nose.

“You are unfair. I only want to help. If not as a healer, as a friend.”

He gives her a dirty look, then snarls, baring his teeth, “That is preposterous. I have no friends.”

She stands up, hurt and angry.

“Get out”, he hisses.

“You spoilt little prince! Can’t stand to acknowledge –“

“Get out!” he yells.

So she exits the room, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Then she grabs her warmest cloak, opens the heavy door of the chambers and points at the Einherjar guarding them.

“You, stay here. You, with me”, she commands, then walks decidedly out.

She marches through the corridors up to the healing rooms. Her tantrum sets her in a infuriated pace. She needs to release her anger and frustration so walking so fast helps it out, for now. She hasn’t feel so irritated for many months. _But Loki – he knows exactly how to – and she has to tend to him – how long for?_

When she enters Eir’s quarters, she’s flushed and breathing hard, as much from anger as from the fast march.

The healer greets her with a warm smile.

“Princess Fionnghuala, you are coming at just the right moment. I intented to see you today. How is the Prince?”

“Well”, she scoffs, “his mind and words are very sharp. This must mean he is recovering well.”

Eir laughes softly.

“He can be quite difficult, at some times.”

“Obnoxious would be closer to reality.”

She realizes at once what she’s said and closes her eyes in awkwardness. She has just insulted the Prince. But Eir only chuckles, takes a seat, and points a chair in front of her.

“You know, your Highness, the both of you can share mutual aid.”

“He rejected me! He doesn’t want my help.”

The healer leans and pats her hand.

“Give him time. He doesn’t know you, he can’t trust you so soon.”

“I don’t trust him, either.”

“See? You need time, too. Do it for you, if not for him.”

She feels tears pooling in her eyes. Here she can cry. She is safe. Eir will not judge her.

“He was very persistent on knowing what happened – what my brother did to me.”

“Did you answer? Could you speak of it?”

“No, I couldn’t! It is horrid, unnatural. I am so ashamed!”

“Shhh”, Eir soothes her, hugging her. “It wasn’t your fault. You are not the one to blame.”

But she pulls herself together, wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands and takes a deep breath in. Regaining her composure, she manages to speak calmly.

“I’m going to have a walk in the gardens. I assume the fresh air will ease my nerves.”

“I think this is an excellent idea, child. I have something for you – or rather for _him_. ”

Eir stands, picks up a phial on a shelf, and hands it to her.

“Here. This is an ointment for his scar. Now that the wound is sealed, this oil will accelerate the complete healing.

“Do you expect me to rub his skin?”, she scoffs.

“Well, let him rub his chest if you want, but I’m afraid you’ll have to apply the oil on his back. The blade stabbed him through.”

“As you wish”, she only replies dryly, standing up and taking her leave.

The guard doesn’t even make an effort to hide his annoyance when she tells him she is going in the gardens. Another effect of not being Asgardian. She wants to ignore him. She feels tired. But Asgardian only respect strength. The courtiers might not show her respect, but she will get into trouble if the Einherjar do not. So she stiffs, and scowls at the man.

“Pray tell, what is the cause of such irritation?”

“It is cold, your Highness.”

“And? Is this of my concern?”

“No, your Highness.”

“Well then, you’d better keep a blank face. Or Odin will know how his guests are treated by his own soldiers.”

“I just –“

“Know your place, soldier.”

She has spoken through gritted teeth, her jaw tense. She could slap him right in the face, but she doesn’t, and he casts a glance at her clenching and unclenching fists. When he gives a short bow, she turns around and makes her way outside.

While she paces slowly through the snowy garden path, she tries as best as she can to shut her mind and let the cold air and crispy snow calm her down. She is warm enough with her thick cloak and wool stockings, but the cold air is like ice shards in her lungs with each inhale, and the bottom of her dress is quickly soaked, heavy and freezing. Her hands are numbing even through her pelt gloves and foldong them on her ribs under the cloak is of no effect. Heavy footsteps follow her and she knows the Einheri is still behind her. There is no threat to fear, but she wants a bodyguard for showing off her status. Her composure and royal scars are not enough for the inhabitants of this realm. Loki included.

Thinking of him makes her turn her head and gaze to the tower they occupy. It can be seen from here, though it is so far that she is not sure she is watching the right one. The Prince is alone. She has a duty. She lets a heavy sigh and, turning around, calls the guard.

She takes time to change her dripping dress and stockings. There is no need to hurry. She is resolute not to let him take advantage. When she enters the cell, Loki is sitting on the covers of his bed, propped up on pillows, his long legs stretched. He wears a pine-green tunic which ties are loose at the collar, a pair of black trousers. His hair is clean and combed, his face shaved. He slowly tears his eyes from the book resting in his lap and stares with a smug lopsided smile, insolent and arrogant as ever.

“Nowhere else to go?”

She smiles amiably, mouth shut.

“Did the fresh air have a soothing effect on your anger?”

She approaches the armchair of the hearth and opens the book about Asgardian flora she has brought.

“Yes, indeed. It was very pleasant.”

She leans and whispers viciously, “You should try it, when you are able.”

He laughs.

“You have quite a temper. I like this.”

“I believe this is the closest you can get to an apology, your Grumpiness.”

He chuckles mischievously. She makes herself comfortable in the armchair and soon gets immersed in her reading. When several hours later supper is brought to them, her limbs are numb from the lack of movement and she winces as she stretches her legs and arms. Once he holds his tray of food on his lap, she sits at the table and starts eating. She has missed lunchtime and is now starving, and even though she is too proud to complain in front of him, her grumbling stomach certainly does. The silence is not uncomfortable, not for her, in any case. She keeps her eyes down on her plate and wolfes down the hot stew, revelling on its rich texture and spicy sauce. When she lets out a contented sigh, he speaks in a deep, velvety voice.

“Are you done pouting?”

“I am not pouting. It’s just a headache.”

“You are a poor liar. No small-talk, then?”

She looks him in the eye and answers, “Small-talk is for friends. We are no friends, you made it very clear.”

She stands up and exits to her bedroom.

When she comes back a few minutes later, dressed for the night, he gives her a surprised and amused look.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He is practically purring, like a cat that got the cream. She ignores him. Face blank, she pushes her cot against his, removes her dressing gown and lays down, burying herself under the eiderdown.

“To hell with propriety. My room is even colder than yours.”


	5. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good intentions are not rewarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter but, I had to let it out.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Days flow by monotonously, becoming weeks. She usually wakes up in his arms, warm and dishevelled, and even though he still has nightmares, her presence is surprisingly soothing.

He is recovering quite well. At first, he walks from his bed to the armchair. From his bed to the table, and they have their meals together, in a very domestic way that he finds not totally unpleasant at first, and soon begins to secretly crave. Soon, he can stand longer, and walk for a few minutes. He soon expresses the wish to see the other rooms of their chambers, and feels incredibly relieved when she opens the window in her room. If not for his façade, he sure could have shed tears of happiness at the sight of the blue sky.

When he claims that Fionnghuala’s bedroom is much more comfortable than his, and that they will sleep here from now on, he can’t help smiling smugly, for she doesn’t argue. Some days, he manages to be pleasant enough, to chat, to play chess. More often, is frustration increases. Mostly because his body calls for physical training, whereas he can barely throw knives in the wooden door. Because she goes out every day for a walk, while he remains kept in here. Because having access to three other rooms gave him the illusion of freedom during two or three days, and now he feels as trapped as ever.

When he is in a bad mood – which happens quite often these days – he is grateful that she keeps silent, letting him brooding. He can sit for hours, staring darkly into space, his brows furrowed and jaw tight. He usually plunges in his memories. His fall from the Bifrost. Thanos and the agonizing pain of his mind-control. Mother’s death. His guilt at having informed the beast of the way that led to the royal apartments.

_It is my fault._

_I should have known._

He mourns his mother. Drowning in remorse and guilt and not wanting to escape these feelings, because he deserves this punishment. His pain is what is left of his mother. He has to bear it for the rest of his days.

When he is too deep in his thoughts, she silently places a cup of tea next to him, and presses his hand to make him surface. Though he genuinely mourns Frigga, he can’t help being grateful for her kindness.

Some cold nights, she presses herself closer to him during her sleep, putting her head on his chest and tangling a leg over his thigh, though she is fast asleep and is not aware of her scandalous behaviour. And he certainly does not tell her, for it would embarrass her. To him, it is like a sweet torture, to feel this lithe body against his, her warm and soft curves in his arms. Sometimes, she even sighs of contentment in his neck. And this is torture. Because if he closes his eyes, he can imagine many other situations in which she could let out these sighs against his skin. His cock is painfully hard as he pictures them naked in this very bed, she beneath him, moaning and whimpering as he licks and sucks her breasts and buries his hand between her tighs and – He can’t even palm his cock over his breeches, nor fuck his fist. Not when she’s asleep next to him. And this is torture. This is the penance Frigga thought of.

Because he doesn’t deserve her. He has always taken what he wanted from women, always managed to seduce them quickly, fuck them a few times before dumping them. He doesn’t want commitment. He has fucked most of Frigga’s handmaidens, a few ladies of the court, some women in the city surrounding the palace. A lot of Midgardians, two or three giantesses too. He has never had an Elf.

And this particular Elf is torturing him. She is so pretty, with her slender and lithe body, the soft curves of her little breasts and hips, her pale skin easily flushed when he teases or irritates her. With her soft grey eyes and her plush lips. Sometimes, he can’t tear his eyes from her face. Wondering how soft would be her lips under his kisses. How velvety the skin of her throat would feel to his fingers and lips. He knows from cuddling at night that her thighs and ass are toned. When she has said she would like to go horse-riding in the woods, he has instantly pictured her, riding _him_ , squeezing him between her milky thighs and moving her hips back and forth as to encourage her horse to gallop. He must have looked at her in a predatory way that time, because she has blushed and turned her back to him.

He can not touch her, now that he figures what her brother has done to her – trying to use her like a brood mare – the mere thought fills him with anger and a compelling desire to kill him slowly and painfully. Because she is perfect. So kind, so innocent. She has a temper, too, though she’s been curbed by her education – and he can’t help but teasing her, just to see her stand before him, fists clenched and eyes flashing. How much he would like to tell her how beautiful she is when she shows her true self.

One morning, at the beginning of spring, she dresses with a lapis-lazuli silk gown, with a round collar, hugging bodice and long sleeves. A long row of buttons runs from her nape down to the small of her back, and he can tell a corset is making her stand straighter, if possible. Her maid has woven her hair in intricate braids. She is beautiful. Regal, yet not overdressed.

“You look beautiful”, he asses with a smile.

She smiles back, but she wrings her hands and bites her lips in nervousness, and he can feel a dark shadow leaning over the day. So tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, he asks in a low voice.

“Conspiring, are you?”

“I – ah – I have an appointment.”

“Mmhhh. Whom with?”

“Your father.”

“He is not my father”, he quickly replies.

“With the Allfather”, she corrects in a whisper.

Anger surges from nowhere, clouding his sight, deafening his ears. He must look daggers at her, because she blanches and swallows hard. He takes a deep breath in.

“Definitely conspiring.”

His voice is low and dangerous. She shakes her head and comes nearer, taking his hands.

“I want to request something from him. I want him to allow you to your old chambers.”

He scoffs.

“Don’t go.”

“Loki, you are recovered. You are a Prince. You can’t stay here.”

“I have to serve my sentence.”

“You avenged your mother’s death, is that not worth an early release?”

“Don’t speak about things of which you don’t know!”, he yells, pulling his hands from hers.

She gasps, eyes wide, confused. He didn’t even intended to burst out. He always destroys everything, and feels like the worst of men.

“Loki – “

“I don’t need your pity.”

He has already began to destroy the friendship and trust they have built these past weeks. Best drain the cups to the dregs. But she surprises him once more.

“This is not pity. You should know better.”

“Don’t go, Fionnghuala. This is a trap.”

She gives him a hard, defiant look, chin high, shoulders squared. How beautiful she is when she’s angry at him. How much he wants to kiss her hard, and fuck her right here on his desk. He smiles deviously, and after one last glare, she leaves.

For what feels like hours, he brews on anger and frustration. He feels betrayed. Who is she to ask something for him, especially to Odin? He wants nothing from the old fool. Doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. Nothing to owe him. He throws knives in the doors, then in the headboard of the bed. He leaves a knife here, for her to see. He should have prevented her going to this audience. Odin will separate them. Because if she makes a request for him, she might care for him. He certainly does. Odin will smell it, know it at once. And he will not allow it. They will lose it all. This peace. This friendship. He should have told her.

When she finally comes back, her features are schooled and she seems very cautious.

“Well”, he snarls, “has your diplomatic mission worked as you wished?”

“Yes. Much more than I expected.”

He is curious, now. He sits on the couch and makes a sign to invite her next to him. She obeys silently, giving him a wary look.

“I spoke in favour of you. Odin grants you permission to be back in your chambers. You will have freedom of movement, as long as you wear your handcuffs. Consider yourself on parole.”

He scoffs with a disappointed rictus.

“I – I thought – you –”

“I want my magic back”, he growls.

She bows her head. Her fists are tightly shut on her lap.

“Is there something else?” he asks darkly.

“I – ah. I will go back to my chambers, too.”

He feels hollow in the chest.

_Of course she would. For this whole situation his highly improper in Odin’s eyes._

He can’t answer. For once, he finds himself at a loss of words.

She looks at him expectantly, and when he stays silent, she cries out.

“What do you say, Loki?”

She slaps his shoulder.

“Doesn’t it matter to you?”

Another slap.

“Why are you so cold to me?”

“I told you not to go. What did you think? Of course he would send you to your own apartments.”

Tears roll on her cheeks, and when he stretches his hands to grab her wrists, she shoves him and stands up so quickly she almost trips on the hem of her dress. He stands, too, hands stretched in surrender.

“We can’t go on living like this. People would gossip if you slept in my rooms.”

“Please, stop.”

“You know where this would lead to.”

“Loki –“, she begs.

He takes a step towards her.

“They’d call you my mistress, they’d call you a whore. Are you ready for this?”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“You are so wrong, my dear.”

He takes another step, and towers her now. He lifts his hand and softly caresses her neck. Her skin is cool, as soft as silk. He leans, his nose on her temple.

“Or maybe you want this?” he purrs. “Being my mistress?”

She slaps him hard, managing to turn his head to the right. His cheek burns from the impact. He smiles.

He knows he deserves it.

There are so many things he could – _should_ – tell her.

_I care so much._

_Stay here with me._

_Aren’t we happy enough?_

He just keeps silent, hard, cold. Staring in silence, lips tightly pressed. Fucking up everything like he always does. Because he deserves to be alone. _She_ deserves better.

She gives him one final hard glare.

“Bugger you, Loki.”

And she leaves.

He deserves it all, piece of scum that he is.


	6. Confessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which talking has virtues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope you are all well.  
> I am, as many of us, on lockdown at home. It seems that writing is not very compatible with working from home and homeschooling two kids, yet I managed to finish this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> Stay home and keep safe,  
> Little_tortoise

She makes her way back to the chambers she used to live in a few weeks ago, before the Prince was moved for Eir’s healing rooms to the cell in the tower. The blue and grey chambers Frigga gave her when she fled from Midgard.

She enters a drawing room, furnished with a night blue plush sofa, two armchairs and a low table, a dining table with two chairs, and thick carpets on the floor. On the right, a door leads to a bathroom. She chooses the left door and enters her bedroom. A fire is already lit and warms the cold air. She looks warily at the large bed. A bed that will evidently be cold – and _empty_.

_I am all alone now._

_By my fault._

His warmth is not the only thing she will miss. She will miss his touch. His strong arms when he cuddles her. His dry humour. His mischievous smiles. The glint in his green eyes. His velvety voice. His smell, pine resin, crisp snow and something musky. Him. Because even if he is incredibly irritating, he has managed to sneak in her heart.

But it’s over now.

Odin won’t tolerate it, of course.

She is no one. Just a refugee.

Her task is over: the Prince is healed, he has recovered, he is out of his cell. She has nothing else to do, now.

Worst of all, she has struck and insulted a Prince of Asgard.

She has lost her temper, because he has made it quite clear that he wouldn’t miss her. Or else he would have said something, wouldn’t he? His coldness, his silence, his icy stare, all of it was quite eloquent, after all.

She feels like a complete fool, because she cares about him. The word isn’t even strong enough.

She has made a fool of herself. Her outburst showed that she cares. Why couldn’t she keep calm, composed, in a much ladylike manner?

Tears already blind her.

She staggers to the corner of her room, between her bed and the wall. Here, nobody will see her. Her legs give out and she collapses in the corner, breaking down. Crying. Screaming.

Her feelings overflow her, wave after wave. Rejection. Self-loathing. Guilt. Remorse. _You idiot. Utter fool. Totally silly and naïve_. _Did you think you could be worthy of him?_

She can’t breath, she chokes, she feels like is going to die.

Her corset is suffocating her.

She knows she has to use her brains, but it is all too difficult now.

So she curls up into a ball, her arms around her shins, presses her forehead to her knees, and waits for her emotional tide to ebb.

She knows he has rejected her because of Nuada has done to her. She is soiled, repellent. She knows that she’d better not think about it, but she is too distressed to have the strength to shut her mind. It’s dangerous. Nuada might find her if she thinks of him.

Nuada, with his haughty countenance, his high cheekbones, his icy gaze. His straight back and squared shoulders. His dark doublets that make him look even fiercer and authoritative.

And suddenly she knows it is too late. She has remembered his face, his figure, and the memory surges in full force.

_Nuala and Nuada are already in her chambers when she enters, that night. They stand close to each other, holding hands, and Nuada is leaning over his twin sister, his forehead resting on hers. They are whispering things she doesn’t hear. They are so alike, with their white, long untied hair, both of them wearing black robes belted with red silk. How did they come so fast? She barely left their father a few minutes ago. This is unsettling. They never come so late. So she asks, and her sister answers._

_“Our brother makes a great honour to you, Finnghuala.”_

_She looks at Nuada expectantly, smiling, for he has never been but kind and protective to her. He takes a step to her and smiles. He looks splendid, with his strong body clad in a black robe and a large crimson scarf belted around his narrow waist, his long silver hair and manly features, high cheekbones and square jaw, his royal markings making him look impressive. He speaks in a low, soft voice._

_“You are to perpetuate our lineage.”_

_She swallows, her eyes going from one twin to the other._

_“What are you talking about?”_

_Nuala comes close to her and takes her hands, stroking their back with her thumbs._

_“I can not give an heir to the realm.”_

_“I don’t understand”, she babbles. “You are the heir”, she says to Nuada._

_“When I am king, and believe me, sister mine, when I say that this time will come soon, I will be in need of an heir.”_

_Nuala seizes her wrists and she struggles in vain._

_“Don’t touch me!” she cries._

_“Shhh”, he soothes, coming behind her. A strong arm slithers around her waist, the hand cupping one breast, and he presses his chest and hips to her back, tilting his head down to inhale her hair._

_“You don’t want anyone else to enter and find you in bed with your siblings, do you?”_

_His voice is dark, gravelly. She squirms in his arms, but he only chuckles and presses closer. His tilts his hips in her buttocks and she can feel that he is already hard. She feels sick at once._

_“No, no, you can’t do that. Don’t do that.”_

_His other hand brushes her ribs, her belly, down to her lady parts – oh. Nobody has ever touched her there. Panic overflows her, she cries._

_“No, please, no!”_

_When he grabs her skirts and lift them, allowing his other hand to palm her inner thigh, she wriggles harder, elbows him in the ribs, and kicks his shin. It only makes him chuckle darkly and he fists her hair, yanking her head backwards, making her gasp in fear and pain._

_“Submit, you ingrate, and I will make it easier.”_

_His hoarse whisper in her ear makes her shudder with repulsion. Her chest heaves, she feels like she is about to vomit, her heart in her throat. But she keeps struggling, for she can’t allow this. Inclining her head, he approaches his face of hers, and kisses her. She immediately closes her lips firmly, and he growls, pressing his mouth on her. Though he cages and immobilizes her, the kiss is not brutal, but it is no less sickening. So she bites him, bites his lower lip until she breaks the skin and feels the coppery taste of his blood in her mouth. He groans and releases her._

_She takes a step on the side, watching him in horror. Nuala still holds her wrists strongly. He touches his lip with his fingertips and, finding blood on them, casts her a murderous gaze._

_And he slaps her. Hard enough to stun her and make her trip on her dress. He grabs her arm before she falls on the floor and drags her to the bed, shoving her on it._

_“Nuala, get behind her. Keep her hands above her head.”_

_She resumes wriggling and kicking, and he hits her once more._

_“Submit, Finnghuala.”_

_And as he bares her to the waist with one hand, he unties his belt and opens his robe with the other. She understands, when she sees his bare body, all muscle and scars, between her legs, that she has no chance of escaping this: he is too strong, he is built to be a warrior. He is built for destruction. In this moment, he is going to destroy her. She screams, terrified, and he slaps her one more time._

_“Submit. Our sister loves it when I fuck her. Relax.”_

_His soothing voice is all the more sickening. This is insane. He is insane._

_He spreads her lower lips with his thumbs, spits on his cock, then, aligning himself with her entrance, grabs her hips and thrusts hard._

_She screams in pain, tears spill on her cheeks._

_It feels like a dagger in her sex, up to her lower belly._

_The pain is excruciating._

_Paying no mind to her, he keeps moving, deeper, deeper, ripping her maidenhead, until his hips are flush against hers. Then he stops, and bends over her, his elbows on each side of her head. He kisses her temple, breath labored, and she winces, turning her head on the other side to escape his caresses._

_“Oh, sweet sister mine”, he groans in her ear, “you feel so good. Now you are mine.”_

_She can only sob uncontrollably._

She has lost track of time, when she hears her name. She manages to lift her head, and here he is, in the dim light of dusk. He stands in front of her, clad in leather and metal, splendour and glory. She has never seen him in his princely garment. If he was handsome in linen trousers and tunic, he sure is impressive in his black and green leather doublet.

 _He_ is here. In her chambers, towering her. She can not clearly see his expression, but his brows are frowned.

_He is displeased._

_I’m too weak._

_I look like a mess._

He crouches down, his left knee almost touching her feet, and lays a hand on hers. His long, cold fingers stroke the back of her hand. This is all she can focus on, and she can’t even muster the courage to look at him. She feels hollow and exhausted.

He sits on the floor, next to her, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She leans against him, revelling in his presence.

“Why have you come?”

“I wanted to check if you were all right” he whispers.

She shakes her head.

“I am sorry. I should have come sooner.”

She keeps quiet for several minutes, eyes closed, calmed down by his proximity and his wintery scent.

Finally, she manages to croak.

“I couldn’t shut my mind. The memories… they washed over me, and I felt myself sinking…”

He groans in acknowledgement.

“My brother… He raped me.”

She feels like she wants to cry, but no tear comes.

“He told that birthing his child was an honour, that I was to perpetuate the lineage.”

“I had figured that”, he confesses in a low voice.

“My sister was holding me when he… She helped him.”

Her voice breaks, so she closes her lips, unable to speak anymore. She hears him letting a deep sigh out, then he tightens his arm around her shoulders and leans his head against hers. A migraine starts pounding in her head and she closes her eyes once more.

“You are not at fault, Finna.”

But she feels so ashamed. She has been used, spoilt. She feels filthy, and she can’t wash the dirt away. Maybe she is too pretty, maybe if she had not worn these pretty dresses… _Maybe I encouraged him…_

“Do you hear me, Finna? You are not to blame.”

She notices the diminutive and gives him an inquiring, wet look. He stands and stretches a hand to help her.

“Come, you must eat.”

“I’m not hungry. I’m thirsty.”

He watches her disapprovingly. She sighs.

“I’m exhausted. Don’t try to be authoritative. You are not my husband.”

He groans and smiles.

“Maybe - maybe I can be your friend?”

Relief wash over her, and she feels overflown with warmth. She can only smile like an idiot, because she wants to believe him so bad.

But her smile falls when she remembers his coldness in the cell.

“I thought – this morning – you didn’t seem to…”

“I was upset”, he cuts.

Taking her hand, he guides her towards the sofa, then brings her a glass of water before sitting in an armchair in front of her. The fresh water soothes her parched throat, and she moans lightly in delight.

“I didn’t even thank you properly. For what you have done to me.”

She sighs, frowning.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. If it weren’t for you, Finna, I would still be a prisoner. I have already spent a year in Odin’s dungeons, and I wished one could die of boredom.”

He leans in his armchair and takes her hand in his long, cold fingers.

“Thank you. Very much.”

She nods in acknowledgement, lips tightly shut because of her emotion. Butterflies take their fly in her belly, but she feels a kind of dread, because he is so fickle.

“Why would you keep silent this morning?” she whispers.

“I was getting angry, for I felt like everything slipped out of control. I knew Odin would separate us, and it scared me. I mean – who else but you could tolerate my temper?”

She giggles.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to find other ways to meet, now.”

He gives a reassuring smile.

Then he casts his eyes down, and when he looks back at her, determination has replaced all warmth in his gaze.

“Get rid of your memories. Stop concealing your past. Tell me how you managed to come here. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

She swallows hard, and nods.

“Well – they –they stayed all night in my room. He – took me again. Just before dawn, they were sound asleep, and I managed to sneak out of my rooms, and of our palace underground. When I came outdoor, I ran away on the moor for a few hours and finally hid in a wooded vale. In the bottom, there was a brook, so I drank my fill. In my haste and panic, I was unprepared, I had no food nor water, I had only picked my cloak. I resumed my walk on the river banks, careful not to leave footprints nor hints. Towards the middle of the day however, I heard hounds. My brother’s. They were hunting for me.”

A low growl forms in Loki’s chest. She casts a glance at him: he is calmly composed, leaning back in his armchair, but she notices the white knuckles of his clenched fists.

“Your brother hunted you down with his dogs? After – what he had already done to you? ”

She nods softly, then picks her story up.

“I walked in the middle of the stream to conceal my odour. But I heard the hounds coming closer. It was terrifying. I couldn’t let him find me, do you understand?”

He nods silently, his lips pressed in a thin line, his eyes hard. The more she tells, the more he gets angry, but she feels safe, for she is not the object of his anger. 

“Luckily, I found a hollow underneath a large rock, so I hid in it, hoping the dogs wouldn’t smell me. They passed by my hideout and went away. I still don’t figure how they didn’t find me. I stayed under the rock until the middle of the night, I was frozen to the bone, for my clothes were damp, and starting to despair. I got out, carefully, but there was a big stag and a few does, drinking in the stream. They saw me.”

“Did the stag threaten you?”

She shakes her head.

“No. Stags are very protective of their females. So is Nuada. My brother shares a connection with Nature and its creatures, you know. The stag would tell him it had seen me, if it was asked.”

“Charming realm indeed, where animals are turned into spies”, he mumbles, pressing his fist at his forehead.

“So I inly called for someone to help me. Anyone. I was losing hope to receive so much as a sign, when I was surrounded by a bright light, and felt like I took my fly. Moments later, I was here, on Asgard.”

He chuckles.

“Heimdall found you and brought you here? Why?”

“Your mother had heard me, too.”

He gives her a sad smile.

Telling her story relieves her more than she had expected. Her chest feels lighter. Still, she can’t look him in the eye now she has confessed all her weaknesses. She knows Asgardians loath weakness, and she is nothing but a victim.

He moves and sits next to her on the couch, and she flinches when he puts gently his hand on hers.

“You are very brave”, he says, his voice soft, but firm.

She turns her head to look at him, gasping. She doesn't understand. _Is this a new trick?_

He smiles sadly.

“You found the courage to escape. To hide, even on the brink of being catched. To call Heimdall.”

“It was not courage. Merely self-preservation instinct.”

“You did it nonetheless. You could have resigned yourself to – “

“Oh, Loki. You don’t know what you are talking about. I never expected to be married, I have been thinking all my life I would die a maiden, for our traditions are quite formal. How could I relinquish to such horror?”

He inhales deeply, then murmurs.

“I couldn’t escape Thanos. I couldn’t escape the dungeons. You did it. That is all I meant.”

She remembers Eir’s words. _The both of you can share mutual aid._

He is as ashamed of his past as she is of hers. They are both broken. Maybe they can understand each other, after all.

She leans and rests her forehead against his jaw. His skin is cool, and she flares her nostrils to inhale his perfume. Her nose is close to his neck, and he smells so good, pine, musk, leather.

“I believe we can help each other. We have to stick together.”

“Finna”, he whispers, “do not trust me so much.”

“But you make me feel safe.”

She hums, closing her eyes. 

“I want to kiss you.”


	7. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finna learns to unwind.

Loki’s feelings are twirling inside him.

He feels so angry, so pained during her confession. He might be tricky, violent, possessive and jealous, rape is something totally unacceptable for him. Something he can’t tolerate. It fills him with murder urges, and he silently vows to kill the Elf Prince, if he ever has the opportunity. Her confession is no surprise, but now, he can’t be mistaken anymore. What she has suffered, it makes him want to pin her brother to a trunk with a lance, and to gut him out.

He feels hopeful, for the teary smile that has flashed on Finna’s features was so genuine, so full of joy, that he can’t help thinking that she might care for him. But what if she does? She is too pure for him. He will only soil her.

He mostly feels guilty.

Guilty of having kept cold, silent and withdrawn in the morning, when she needed him to comfort her.

Guilty of having let her alone while he was in Odin’s office, then in his rooms, revelling in the cosiness of what has been his only home for centuries, while she was alone and desperate, curled up in a corner of her bedroom, dwelling on the memories of the ordeal her own brother inflicted her.

Guilty of selfishly tricking her. He has offered friendship only to stay close to her, whereas it is not enough anymore. But after she told him her secrets, after such a display of trust, he can’t lie anymore. Isn’t it ironic? He, the God of Lies, feels compelled to tell the truth. It is an overwhelming force that settles in his mind, in his chest, and when she offers trust, and help, and something mutual, when she presses her forehead on his jaw, he is forced to confess.

“Do not trust me so much”, he whispers, eyes cast down in shame.

“But you make me feel safe.”

Her voice is low, soft, hopeful, and she huddles on his shoulder, humming in comfort.

He has to tell her. To make her understand that he is untrustworthy. That he is not worthy at all. 

“I want to kiss you.”

She keeps silent, her only reaction being a sharp inhale through her nose.

“I want to kiss you. I can’t be your friend, because I want more.”

“What do you mean, Loki?”

“Friendship is not enough. I want to be your lover. I want you. That might not make me worthier than your brother.”

She sits back up, and smoothes an invisible line on her skirts, her head down, her gaze carefully set on her knees. She seems to process his confession, to take her time to answer. She is too reserved: isn’t it a sign that she doesn’t want him? There is a mass expanding in his chest, compressing his inner organs. He stands abruptly, ready to leave, but she takes his hand, and he turns to her, eyes guarded.

“I don’t – I’m not –“

“Forgive me Finna”, he cuts, unable of hearing her rejection.

As he attempts to free his hand, she clutches it, and urges, “Wait.”

She stands, taking a step next to him. She is so close that he can smell her, and he inhales, but her honeyed fragrance brings no relief.

“I’m not ready”, she offers. “I’m shy. These are not our customs. Elves marry, they don’t have lovers. Well, most of them.”

He knows she refers to her siblings.

“I didn’t even expect to marry, either,” she adds in a barely audible way, as for herself.

“Is it a proposal, little flower?”

It is in his nature. He can’t help being mischievous, can’t help teasing her, but his smile falls when her eyes widen and her lips open.

“Loki, I – “

He sighs heavily, defeated. He is always so good at breaking things.

“Never mind, Finna. Just – try to forget it. I won’t speak of it anymore.”

He withdraws his hand, and she lets go. He can’t bear to look her in the eyes, for fear of what he will discover in her gaze: contempt, rejection – or worst: pity? So he turns his back to her and makes his way to the door.

Light footsteps follow him, and as he grabs the door handle, her hand on his forearm holds him back. He spins around, harshly, anger brewing in his chest.

“I believe you can be patient”, she offers.

“I can be very patient, when I want to.”

“You could – court me?”

Frustration and anger threaten to wash over him, making him baring his teeth and hiss dangerously.

“What do you mean, ‘court you’?”

“Loki, please don’t –“

“We have lived in an almost marital way for six weeks, sharing our meals. May I remember you that I held you flush against me, each and every night?”

She takes a step back, and he follows her, towering her.

“I felt your body, your leg over mine, and you sighed in my neck at night. And now, you want me to ‘court you’?” he snarls.

His left hand seizes her arm, and his right slides in her hair, then rests heavily at the nape of her neck.

“I don’t want to play this game of yours, Finna.”

She watches him with watery eyes, releasing a shaky breath. He knows he scares her, and it takes all his strength to let go his grip and, instead of kissing her like he desperately wants to, close his arms softly in her back and rest his chin on the top of her head.

He feels relief as she leans against his chest, her face in his shoulder, and slithers her arms to his spine, tightening the embrace. He bends his face, inhaling her hair. Her shoulders and back relax against him and she sighs heavily.

“I already regret it so much. It makes me feel so selfish” she whispers.

He knows what she is talking about.

“I regret it too.”

“I couldn’t keep you in jail just to stay with you, could I?”

“You are not selfish, Finna. You didn’t think of yourself.”

She shivers. Or is it a silent sob?

“What do you want to do, now that you are not stuck in the tower anymore?”

He hums softly. She’s always kind to him.

“I will train, I suppose, or haunt the library. What about you?”

“I’d like to have a long walk in the forest. I miss it.”

Breaking the embrace, she holds his hand and drags him gently to the couch.

“Please, stay a little longer. Have dinner with me tonight. I’m too accustomed to it to let you go.”

He smiles, and nods. There is no way she won’t torture him, even with her innocence. Fionnghuala kneels in front of the fireplace and begins to build a fire, just like she did when they were in the cell. He watches her back and hips intently, the silk of her skirts tense over her bottom when she bends forward. He holds back a low growl and slouches against the backrest of the sofa.

She has told him she couldn’t shut her mind from her memories, earlier. He has understood that her brother has a powerful mind. Could it be possible that he somewhat _heard_ her remembering her rape?

She never pronounces his name. Does she fear it might bring memories on her mind? Or does she fear it might call him, _summon_ him in Asgard? If he comes, it won’t be out of courtesy. He will come for her. Loki doubts she could be able to resist.

“Can you fight, Finna?” he asks casually.

She turns her head suspiciously.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you fight?”

“Are you aware of something I don’t know?”

“Answer”, he commands.

She stands and turns.

“Loki, you are scaring me. Why should I fight? What is wrong?”

He sighs.

“I was thinking of your brother. I’m afraid he might be at least as resentful as I am.”

“Do you think he could come and seek me in Asgard?”

He purses his lips and lifts his palm in an gesture of uncertainty.

“If he decides to come here, we’d better be armed and ready.”

She’s standing, stiff and rigid. Scared. He stands and steps to her, then takes her chin between his thumb and index, tilting her head.

“Now, Finna, can you fight?”

She slowly shakes her head, eyes wide.

“I’m a decent archer, but it’s not enough. You don’t know him. You never saw him fight.”

“You could learn.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. He is invincible.”

Loki grunts.

“So thought the monster that killed my mother. And still…”

“I can’t –“

“Finna. If he comes – _when_ he comes”, he says, hating how her eyes widen further in terror, “will you surrender to him? I don’t think you will. I don’t expect you to.”

“I’d rather kill myself.”

“No. You will fight. I will teach you.”

She gives him a flicker of a smile, and he can’t help resting his eyes on her lips.

The opening door makes her jolt and step back in one swift motion, and he lets out a frustrated snort. Gullveig enters, carrying her mistress’s dinner.

“Your Highness”, she greets.

And then, noticing him, she bows her head in respect.

“My Prince.”

Loki smiles. He knows how to release his anger and frustration.

“Where have you been, Gullveig?” he asks in a sweet and dangerous tone.

Fionnghuala gasps and lays a hand on his arm.

“Loki, don’t.”

He pulls his arms out of her reach.

“Where have you been when your mistress needed you today?”

The girl mutters an apology.

“You know she has terrifying memories. Where were you, when she needed you to shake her out of her memories today?”

“I didn’t know – I – please!”

Circling him, Fionnghuala comes in front of him, resting her hands on his chest.

“Loki, enough with the girl!”

He lifts his eyes to hers, obeying. Never leaving his gaze, she commands the maid to bring more food for him.

“You will sleep here. The Princess is not to be left alone with her nightmares”, he adds.

“As my Prince wishes.”

She escapes swiftly, and he can’t help smiling at Finna.

“She didn’t deserved it.”

“I beg to differ.”

He sweeps a loose strand from her face and tugs it behind her ear.

He needs distance.

Taking a sharp inhale, he draws back and sits at the table, breaking bread and pouring wine in two glasses.

She joins him and sits, her face and eyes guarded.

“I expect you in the training yard at dawn.”

“No, thank you.”

“I wasn’t asking, Finna.”

She sends him a murderous look, and he casually takes a bite of bread, unimpressed.

“I don’t appreciate this premptory attitude. You have no rights on me.”

“I know. Yet, I will be much more serene when you will be able to defend yourself.”

She leans back in her seat, visibly annoyed.

“My brother is called ‘Silverlance’. He always fights at a distance. He is older than you, and sturdier.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with a feral smile, voice low.

“I mean you are slender. He is stronger than you.”

“Evidently you never have seen me fight”, he scoffs.

She laughs.

“Always so arrogant.”

He chuckles darkly.

“I am a god, sweetheart.”

Gullveig comes back with a second tray of food, and silently puts it before him on the table. Neither of them are speaking, and Finna is looking daggers at him. The maid escapes.

“I don’t think that your brother will come here to kill you with his silver lance. He will likely try to abduct you.”

He delights in observing her frown. _At last_. She is beginning to change her mind. She eats small bites in silence, whereas he wolves down his plate.

“I can teach you techniques of hand-to-hand combat. I can teach you how to fight with a knife. Believe me, I’m quite good.”

She glares at him.

“You might hate it”, he chuckles, “but you know I’m right. Now, Finna, go to sleep. You look positively exhausted, and I’ll wait for you at dawn.”

“I won’t come”, she mutters like a pounting child.

“Yes you will”, he answers with a cocky smile, standing and taking his leave. “Or I will come and drag you out of bed.”

As he leaves, she can only roll her eyes. She wants to yell at him, to drop her glass of wine at his ridiculously handsome face, but she feels far too drained after her panic attack. Thankfully, her exhaustion might allow her to sleep all night through, in a deep and dreamless slumber.

Gullveig wakes her up, on the next morning. The sun is already dawning, and she curses under her breath, then demands a hot bath, for she feels wretched. While the bath runs, she eats her breakfast absent-mindedly, staring into space. She is still tired. She feels empty.

The hot water is delightful, and she relishes in the steam and heat and the creamy soap she grabs to wash her skin.

She dips in the tub to rinse, her face only coming to the surface, when she hears heavy, decided footsteps in her room.

 _Oh, by the Tuatha Dé Dannan_. How persistent, how irritative he could be.

“Finna”, he calls crisply. “Get out of there. You are late.”

She sighs and hits the water in frustration, but gets out of the tub and dries herself all the same, for fear that he might enter the bathroom. She doesn’t trust him. Then she puts her dressing gown and exits, her hair damp and dangling in long, dripping strands. She marches right to him, hissing in his face.

“Why must you act like this, Loki?”

He smirks.

“Hello, Finna. I have these made for you”, he says, gesturing to the chair where dark blue clothes are displayed.

“I assume you will like the color.”

She takes the heavy fabric of what seems to be a shirt, or a jacket, between her fingers. It’s of a deep, beautiful indigo shade.

“I do”, she answers honestly.

She then takes the other piece of garment, a pair of very large trousers, with long belts attached to the waist. When she hangs it in the air, it almost seems to be a skirt, with large folds on the front.

“What is it?”

“It is a fighting garment worn on Midgard.”

“I never saw anyone dressed in similar clothes.”

“Well, I thought that it would fit you, since you are used to wearing gowns. I thought your modesty would be more at ease than in skin-tight trousers.”

“Thank you. But I wouldn’t even know how to tie the clothes.”

He chuckles, and hangs her a light shirt and a pair of loose trousers.

“Well, consider this as undergarment. I will wait in here while you wear it, then I will show you.”

She feels irritated to no end. Yet she obeys, for she already knows she won’t escape him when he is in one of _these_ moods. She lets a deep breath out, jaw clenched, casts an annoyed look at Gullveig, and retreats in her bedroom to wear his ‘undergarments’. She feels like an idiot in them. She feels awkward and ugly. And she tells him so when she gets back in her sitting room, where he is waiting for her.

“Wait, you are not fully dressed yet. Gullveig, watch carefully. You’ll help the Princess tomorrow if she doesn’t remember how to tie her garments.”

“Don’t treat me like a child”, Finna hisses.

And he smirks once more. He seems so pleased with himself that Finna wants to strike him right across the face. Maybe he is right. Maybe this is a good idea. Maybe if she learns to fight, she might actually be able to lash out her anger and frustration on him during their training.

The shirt has no buttons, and he folds the left part over the right one, then ties a belt around her waist. Then she steps into the trousers, and he helps her to tie the hanging belts around her waist and in the previous belt she wears. She winces as he tightens the knots.

“It is too tight”, she complains.

“You will get used to it. You don’t want it to fall to your knees, do you?”

She looks daggers at him and he smiles cockily.

“Your Highness, you look beautiful!” exclaims Gullveig.

And when she turns to the mirror and Gullveig starts plaiting her long hair, Finna must admit that her maid is right. Her modesty is safe, yet she is free of moving, for the jacket is large and its sleeves stop above her wrists. When her eyes in the mirror move to Loki, they find him behind her, eyes roving on her form, then settling in hers, with a new emotion in his warmer gaze. Admiration?

“Beautiful, indeed”, he purrs.

His low voice makes her shiver.

As they get into the training yard, she feels all the more uneasy as they are met by four sparring people. Finna has already seen them from afar during banquets: the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif. Thor’s companions. The blond, arrogant man and the hulky one laugh as they greet Loki, the black-haired man nods politely, and the Lady Sif narrows her eyes at Finna.

“Never mind them”, Loki mutters.

Finna feels nervous. She is not used to it. She hates it when people stare at her, especially when she’s doing something she doesn’t master.

She’s chewing her bottom lip, breath shallow.

“Relax”, Loki instructs. “First lesson: attack and dodge. Attack, today, will consist in punching forward, like that.”

He shows her how to close her fist, how to let the knuckle of the middle finger stick out to hurt more.

“Right fist and right leg backwards. When you punch, move all your right side forward.”

“Why?”

“All your weight moves when you strike, it give you more strength.”

“Oh.”

And she tries, again and again, until he nods appreciatively.

“Now, I punch and you dodge my attack. Take an outside sidestep and just lay the edge of your hand on my forearm.”

They practice, and the Lady Sif gives her two or three indulgent advices.

Finna tires. This requires more concentration and vigilance than she had thought.

“One last move”, Loki announces. “Take an inside sidestep, control my punching forearm with your wrist, and punch my face with your other hand.”

“Really? You want me to punch you in the face?”

“Come on Finna, you might not reach me. Just practice.”

Fionnghuala rolls her eyes and hears Sif giggling from somewhere on her right.

The first try is pathetic.

Loki tilts his head, smirking.

“See? You can’t hit me.”

The second try isn’t worthier. Neither is the third. He just lightly tilts his head back, smiling. It’s infuriating.

Sif comes closer.

“Don’t let him get under your skin, Your Highness. Don’t think of him. Take a deep breath in, empty your mind, focus on the timing. Chin high, shoulders relaxed, hands forward at the ready.”

Fionnghuala gives her a grateful glance, and does as she is told.

She inhales deeply.

When Loki punches, it is almost as if her body acts without her thinking. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing. She can only feel and see the result: her fist hurts with the impact, and Loki touches the underside of his nose, looking at her in surprise.

She can’t help a victorious smirk fanning on her face.


	8. The lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finna and Loki enjoy nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope you are all safe and healthy.  
> Stay at home, keep safe!
> 
> Smutty times ahead!

As days and weeks go on, she finds that she, in fact, has a talent for fighting.

Her skills improve faster than she would think at first, and she rapidly spares with both Loki and Sif.

In the first days, she was exhausted by the end of their training. Now, she’s spent, but she recovers faster. Her body is harder, suppler, nimbler. She is always black and blue, but she is almost proud of it, for she takes it as a proof that she actually can fight.

She also sleeps better. Physical exhaustion is at cause, of course, but she knows that she is growing confident, and that she trains her vigilance as well in the yard as all day long. And if she is vigilant, she can keep thoughts of her brother at bay.

Loki trains her with various weapons: sabre, sword, stick, lance, and halberd even. She quite likes the halberd, but her favourite is the dagger in hand-to-hand combat. The best part of it might not be assaulting her partners with the blade, but being assaulted and capable of disarming them. Oh, how she loves it when Loki is compliant enough to let her twist his arm and wrist, and pick the blade right out of his long fingers. How she loves it when she manages a particular tricky move, and they both laugh in triumph. How she loves it, when he watches her with _that_ expression. Is it admiration? Pride of seeing his student improving? Sometimes, his gaze is even warmer, and it sends butterflies flying in her belly, and _this_ is a problem, for it is utterly distracting.

Never has he talked about the inappropriate things he has confessed when they settled back in the palace.

But she knows it is always on his mind: it is in the way he watches her, the way he whispers advices in her ear, the way he replaces her hips when her body is out of alignment. The touch never lingers, but the feeling does. It troubles her more than she’d like to admit. Something flutters in her belly, she sometimes feels as if a snake contorted and knotted in her stomach.

That day, when she opens her door to go to the training yard, Loki is waiting for her in the corridor, casually leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed on his chest.

“Pick a cloak”, he purrs. “It might be chilly.”

“Shall I wear my training clothes?”

“You shall. It will be easier for riding.”

 _Riding_? Where are they going?

She does as he tells and follows him to the stables. He seems to be in a pleasant mood, though he evades her questions with small talk and light jokes.

A stableman is already waiting for them: he hands the reins of a black stallion to Loki, and of a bay mare to her, and they swing into the saddle.

“Where are we going?” she asks for the third time.

“Patience.”

“I don’t like surprises, Loki.”

“No need to fret. You’ll like it.”

In fact, she feels elated, for she hasn’t left the palace yet, even though she terribly wished to have a walk in the mountains and the woods. She has felt too unsure, and has restricted herself to a walk in the Allmother’s famous rose garden, or a ride in the manege.

So as they pass through the large gates and enter the city, she can’t help grinning. Though the more they move into the city, the more people fix their eye at her, after bowing shortly to their Prince.

_Of course._

She is an Elf.

Common people might not make difference between a Ljosalfr and a Dökkalfr: both are white-haired. The Dökkalfar killed their Queen only half a year ago.

“They hate me”, she whispers.

“They are wary of you, which is utterly different. They will get used to you. Hold your chin high, little flower. You are royalty and they are nothing.”

He gives her a piercing stare, and she straightens in her saddle. After a few moments, his lips curl in a slight smile, and she feels heat creeping to her neck and cheeks.

He is so handsome. This is unnerving.

When they go past the last houses, she feels relieved, and presses her heels in her horse’s flank. Loki follows her at first, only instructing her to ride towards the mountains.

They arrive sooner than she had thought, and Loki takes the lead, slowing his stallion. They enter a pine forest that smells like _him_ , and she smiles for herself, watching his back. How graciously he rides, his body making one with his mount. The narrow paths slithers through mossy rocks, and the sun lets large light patches on the ground. Neither of them talk, enjoying the peace of the forest.

They finally exit the shadow of the trees and the landscape is much more mineral, only rocks, grass, moss, and lichens to be seen.

They climb to a pass, and on the other side, in a hollow, there is a lake, surrounded by meadows. The landscape is breathtaking. There are still patches of snow here and there, and the mountains in the distance are covered with snow.

“It is beautiful”, she whispers.

He smiles, silent, his green eyes bright with joy.

They dismount and let the horses graze. Loki walks towards the lake, chooses a place and sits in the grass. She sits next to him, on her cloak.

“I had thought of training on an uneven ground, but I confess I’d rather enjoy both your company and the view.”

She giggles and lays down in the grass. As he lays down too, she doesn’t hesitate in the slightest: she turns to him and rests her head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around her back, hand resting on her arm. This is so good. His warmth, his scent, the beating of his heart. It feels like _home_.

“I’ve missed this.”

“Yes. So did I”, he whispers.

She presses her nose in his neck and inhales deeply. _This_ , this she has missed, too.

He stiffens.

“What are you doing?”

Without thinking, she props herself on her elbow, resting a hand on his chest, and leans over him.

“I want to – can I –“”

He stays silent, eyes fixed on her lips.

To hell with propriety. To hell with shyness. She has been wanting to kiss him for weeks now. Nobody can interrupt, there will never be a better moment.

She presses lighty her lips on his, and he lets out a slight moan.

This feels _right_. She has wanted to do it for so long. But –

She has expected him to touch her, kiss her back, but – he doesn’t move. He must be disappointed. She doesn’t even know how to kiss. He must think she is terribly prude. So she draws back, eyes cast down in shame.

“I’m sorry, I –“

“Sorry for what? For kissing me?” he chuckles lightly.

As she takes a glance, she notices the impish glint in his eyes.

“I don’t know how –“

She can’t finish her sentence, for he wraps his arms around her and flips her on her back. He caresses her face to brush off a strand of hair.

“Do you think I didn’t like it?”

She furrows her brows in anxiety, and nods once.

“It was perfect”, he purrs in a low voice. “I wanted to let you in charge.”

She lets out a relieved breath as he cups her cheek.

“Can I, too?”

She nods.

A low rumble forms in his chest, and he kisses her more avidly. One of his hands glides to the back of her head, and his lips are heavier on her mouth. He opens his mouth, licking lightly her lower lip, and she gasps in surprise. He takes advantage and forces the barrier of her teeth, sliding his tongue in her mouth. At first, she stiffens, her fingers clutching his skin through the leather. When his other hand move to the small of her back and press her against his chest, she relaxes and responds to his kiss, probing shyly with her tongue, arching her back and pressing her belly against his.

He _growls_ , and it sends _something_ right between her legs.

Heat is flowing in her body, from her chest down to her lower belly. As his fingers brush the underside of a breast, she sighs in his mouth.

The sound of her blood pulsing in her ears is deafening her, and she feels lightheaded.

He stiffens and breaks the kiss, tilting his head to the side, his gaze hardening. She only understands that there is something wrong when she hears a deep voice.

“Banphrionsa.”

Loki and her stand at once.

“Finna, get behind me”, he growls darkly, pushing her with his arm.

Three elves are marching towards them, wearing the same grey quilted tunic and leather trousers. They stop at a respectful distance, and drop on one knee before standing back.

As one of them starts speaking, she grabs Loki’s arm for balance, chest heaving.

“They came for me”, she whispers.

“What is he saying?”

“He says that my father is worried about me, that I shall go with them.”

“Never.”

The elf speaks once more.

“He says you have abducted me. That my brother has told them to bring me back, on pain of death.”

Loki groans once more.

“I’ll kill them first. Your brother won’t even have this pleasure.”

The elves take one step, then another, and two of them put their hands on the hilts of their swords.

“I think it is time for you to put theory into practice.”

Loki draws two daggers he wears at his belt since he can’t use his seiðr, and she draws hers as well.

Two of the elves grab their swords, and the third stares directly at Fionnghuala, extending a hand to her.

“Banphrionsa”, he invites, circling his two companions and Loki.

Fionnghuala holds her guard high, bending her knees nimbly to be steadier.

Loki rushes forward and stabs one of the elves in the ribs, ducking at the same time to avoid the second elf’s sword. Fionnghuala waits for her opponent to surge.

“I do not wish to hurt you, Princess.”

“I won’t go back with you.”

“Why would you stay in Asgard? There is nothing for you here, you must go back to your people.”

“Never. You will have to kill me and bring my corpse back.”

He extends his hands to show he is unarmed.

“I will not commit such a crime, Your Highness.”

He reaches to grab her hand and she sidesteps, controlling his arm with her wrist. Instantly he swirls, and she swirls with him, in a deadly dance.

“Who trained you? You couldn’t fight, back in Bethmoora.”

He rushes and punches viciously her wrist, and she yelps in distress as she feels her dagger slipping out of her grip. The elf ducks and bumps his shoulder into her chest, knocking her on the grass and straddling her waist.

Panic surges inside her. This is not like her trainings, even the hard ones. He is not compliant in the slightest, and she is not strong enough. She’s out of breath, and as he tries to catch her wrists, she feels like she is totally losing control.

The elf manages to pin one of her hands above her head. As he bends over her, she catches his dagger at his belt and stabs him in the throat. Blood spurts, splashing on her face, and he gurgles horribly. Without thinking, she pulls the dagger out of his neck and stabs him in the eye.

He instantly collapses on her, crushing her under his weight.

A warm, thick fluid flows over her shoulder and into her neck and hair.

Gasping hysterically, she tries to move the body, but he seems to be made of limp lead. She manages to turn, when Loki rushes to her and jerks the corpse away. She rolls on her knees and throws up in the grass.

She just killed someone.

She can’t stop heaving.

_I took a life._

_I’m a monster._

Kneeling in front of her, Loki grabs her shoulders.

“Finna, are you hurt?”

“It is not my blood.”

“Thank Norns”, he mutters, clutching her against his chest.

She sobs uncontrollably, and he holds her, cradling her head in his hand, pressing his lips on her forehead.

“Let’s go back to the palace.”

He helps her to stand on wobbly legs, and he has to hold her in support. They both mount his stallion, she behind him. He grabs the reins of her mare.

“Hold fast, we’re going to ride hard to the city.”

She wraps her arms around his waist, leaning against his back.

Her mind is blank.

Empty.

As empty as her.

She can’t think of anything during the ride.

As they arrive in the stables of the palace, Loki nearly jumps out of the saddle and scoops her in his arms.

“I’ll walk”, she whimpers.

“No.”

His voice is both dark, velvety and imperious. It makes her feel safe. She doesn’t argue and turns her face to his chest, closing her eyes in shame of her weakness.

Loki marches through corridors in a steady pace. As he passes before Einherjars, he barks: “Fetch Eir and send her to my rooms.”

After a few minutes, he kicks a door open, crosses a room and kicks another door. She’s shaken out of her lethargy and takes a look around her. They are in a large, grey bathroom. He leaves her delicately on a black wooden stool and turns on the tips of the tub.

“Where are we?”

“In my chambers. I’m running a bath, you might want to wash.”

“Take me back to my rooms.”

“No.”

She flinches. His voice is determined, peremptory. It is almost scary. She doesn’t feel strong enough to argue. Her only answer is a single tear on her cheek. She doesn’t want to be afraid of him.

He kneels before her, taking her hands.

“Finna, look at me. I can’t leave you alone. You are in danger. You will stay here with me, where I will be able to protect you.”

She nods weakly.

“Do you trust me, Finna?”

“You told me not to. So much times.”

_Did you not warn me?_

He chuckles darkly.

“Yes, I did. Trust me now, darling. I am the God of Chaos, I can handle it.”

He stands as light footsteps resonate in the next room.

“Have your bath. Eir will stay with you while I go and see Odin.”

He leaves her, pulling the door without closing it totally, and she can hear his dark voice, but she can’t hear the words.

She undresses and sinks into the tub. The hot water soothes her sore limbs, but rapidly turns to a repelling shade of light red. She grabs a bar of soap and frantically scrubs her skin and her hair that are stained with blood.

It seems that nothing can wash off the filth. _She_ is filthy. Nothing can wash off her _sin_.

As she scrubs her skin raw, she whimpers helplessly.

Suddenly, Eir is standing next to the tub. She gives Fionnghuala her motherly smile and picks the soap from her hands.

“Let me help you, child.”

Fionnghuala sits and curls into a ball, her arms wrapped around her shins, head resting on her knees, eyes closed. She lets Eir washing her hair, massaging her shoulders and arms.

Fionnghuala wants to stay and soak in the tub. But as she cracks an eye open and sees the bloody water she’s in, her stomach protests. She gasps loudly and rushes out of the tub.

“Calm down, child. Breathe.”

_Breathe._

_Focus on your lungs._

Eir helps her dry with a fluffy towel, then hands her one of her woollen blue dresses. She wonders how it got there. In Loki’s rooms. She feels curious, and also a bit worried, to be here. It is obviously to like being with him in his former cell.

Once dressed, she steps out of the bathroom, and finds herself in a large room that is surprisingly sparsely furnished: there are two couches face to face in front of the fireplace, a dark wooden desk near a wall covered in bookshelves, and a table, where he might take his meals privately. Thick, dark green curtains hang on each side of the windows. An open doorway leads to another room, probably his bedroom. His chambers are refined, yet not lavish.

She curls in a ball on the couch and hears Eir sitting beside her.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I killed him. I stabbed him – there was so much blood – the sound –“

“Shhh, it’s allright.”

“No, it’s not!”

“You did it on self-defence, Princess.”

She shivers.

“They came to bring me back to Earth. Straight to my brother.”

“We won’t allow this, will we?”

Loki’s voice make her lift her head. He stops by the door and holds it open. The gesture is quite clear.

“Thank you, Eir, that will be all”, he says with a nod.

The goddess smiles kindly, though she is dismissed like a servant, and walks to the door. She stops in front of Loki, and they exchange a few words that Fionnghuala can’t hear.

“Thank you”, he says in a low voice as Eir leaves and he closes the door.

The room is already darkening and as he sits next to her, a fire lights in the fireplace.

She gasps in surprise, and he chuckles lowly.

“Let’s make you comfortable.”

“Did Odin remove your cuffs?”

Loki nods, smiling smugly. He opens his arms.

“Please, Finna.”

She moves and huddles against his chest.

“What I did –“

“There is no shame to feel, little flower. You could not let him catch you.”

Her throat is still tight and she swallows in attempt to relax it.

“I saw you fight in the corner of my eye”, he whispers, his lips on her forehead. “You did so well, I’m so proud of you.”

He traces a lazy pattern on her shoulder with his fingertips, and warmth spreads from his hands and flow in her body, relieving all soreness.

She tilts her face towards his, silently questioning him.

“Seiðr”, he explains, “to ease your sore limbs.”

She hums, and he leans to press his lips on hers. The kiss is soft at first, and when she tentatively licks his lower lip, because it felt so good when he did this in the meadow this morning, he _positively_ growls in a feral manner that sends shivers all along her spine. He slides his tongue in her mouth, licking and probing, and his arms close around her back and under her thigh as he lifts her so she can straddle him, and she squeaks and giggles in surprise.

This is _deliciously_ indecent, and yet, it feels so right. She feels something _hard_ pressing to her core, and as she instinctively rolls her hips, she escapes a slight moan. He smiles against her mouth.

“Finna, you’ll be the death of me”, he purrs.

Oh, his _voice_. Dark and velvety. _Sinful_.

“Loki”, she pants, “I want – I don’t know – _more_.”

He pulls out and she instantly _mourns_ the loss, only to find him watching her intently.

“Are you sure? Are you sure you are ready for this?”

She frowns in hesitation.

“Can we – stop if – if it’s too much?”

She knows she is blushing hard. She has never experienced anything of the sort, in her two thousand years of life. She is both anxious and exceedingly aroused.

“Anything you want. You decide, _ástin mín._ ”

She crawls back and stands, and takes his hand to make him follow her. He smiles mischievously and leaps on her, tossing her over his shoulder. She shrieks and cackles in a very unladylike manner as he marches to the bedroom, kicks the door to close it, and drops her on the bed. He crawls upon her and resumes his kisses, and his hands are everywhere: on her throat, her breasts, her ribs, down to –

He kneels between her legs and unclasps his leather and metal doublet, throwing it on the floor. She shamelessly grabs the hem of his tunic and lifts it, and he complies in undressing.

She has already seen his chest, when they were back in their tower and he was healing. The scar is still there, right on his plexus, but it is not what she wants to look at: she bites her lower lip as she relishes in watching his slender form and hard muscles. She can’t help fondling the cool skin of his stomach.

Lifting her gaze to his, she finds him smiling smugly.

“My turn”, he says in a hoarse voice.

He proves to be quite skilled in unlacing her dress, and it quickly joins his clothes on the floor. She squirms uneasily in the long, sleeveless tunic that is her underwear, feeling exposed for it is hitched up on her thighs.

Loki wets his lips with his tongue and lightly touches a knee, and looks her in the eye without moving. She understands that he is waiting for her consent and nods. His lip curls slightly and his fingertips caress her inner thigh.

“Silk”, he growls.

His fingers climb up to her sex, brushing against her folds. She nods once more, never breaking eye contact. She gasps as he slides a finger inside her.

“Oh, darling”, he hisses, “you’re drenched.”

He moves his finger in and out, and she relaxes a bit. This is not painful. He tries to prepare her, to calm her down. As if he can read her mind, he whispers between kisses: “I’m so honoured to be your first, _ástin mín_.”

“But I’m not –“

“Shhh, _ástin mín_. No one has ever made love to you.”

 _Kiss_.

“This is your first time.”

 _Kiss_.

“Let me worship you.”

He slowly descends to her breasts, licking and sucking her nipples through her chemise. A jolt of pleasure flashes through her, and her back arches in its own volition.

“I want to see you, Finna”.

His voice is lower than usual, and incredibly husky. She sits and grabs the bottom of her clothes, then swings it over her head before leaning back on the eiderdown.

“Beautiful.”

He slides a second finger through her folds, and she gasps loudly.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it is – it is – not so much uncomfortable.”

He smiles encouragingly and resumes moving his fingers in and out of her. The sensation of stretching around him is soon replaced with a pressure in her lower belly, as he _curls_ his fingers. She closes her eyes, and jolts when she feels his hair brushing her _thigh_.

What can he possibly do _down there_?

“Loki, what –“

“Trust me”, he rasps, and then his mouth is on her sex, licking on the bundle of nerves just above her opening.

“You are so sweet.”

His tongue is warm, and wet, and she should be _ashamed_ to be spread like this, yet it is utterly _delicious_.

“Loki, I-“

He grunts, and the vibrations of his voice send more jolts of pleasure into her core.

There is a pressure and a heat building in her lower belly, and she instinctively arches her back in search of something she ignores.

“Say my name, flower.”

“Loki, please!”

His fingers move back and forth, and her muscles are taut, and this is too good, this is too much, and then he curls his fingers and suck and –

She is hit by a wave. Then another. Pleasure courses through her and light blinds her as she hears a hoarse moan whom voice she can’t recognize. Her hips roll on his hand, and inner muscles she didn’t knew were there clench, and she can’t seem to control her body. Loki continues to kiss and lick until the pleasure slows down. He crawls back above her, propping himself on his elbows, and gives her an idle, slow kiss. She can taste herself. This is immodest, sinful, but she can only smile to him and bring her hands to his flanks and back, fondling his smooth skin.

“Thank you”, she whispers.

He smiles, too. She feels him hot and hard against the inside of her thigh and a pang of dread flashes into her stomach.

_This is alright._

_He’ll be gentle._

_This is alright._

She hasn’t realized she has closed her eyes until he strokes her cheek with a thumb and whispers hoarsely: “Open your eyes, flower. Stay with me.”

The head of his cock presses to her opening, and he once again gives her a piercing look, tilting his head to the side.

She nods, spreading her legs wider.

“I trust you”, she breathes.

He opens her folds with his fingers, guides himself into her, and pushes his hips forward, just an inch, before retreating.

“Easy, love. I’ll give you time.”

He surges forwards again, two inches, then retreats. Then a little more.

“How do you feel, flower? Are you alright?”

She nods, gasping in new sensations.

And so on, slowly, until he is fully buried inside her.

He lets out a shaky breath and wipes a single tear that has escaped on her cheek.

“Are you in pain?”

At first, she thinks she can’t speak. This is not painful, not totally, but - she feels so full of him, he surrounds her with his arms and body, and his eyes are fixed in hers. This is so intimate, too intimate, and she closes her eyes, burying her face in his bicep.

“Finna, look at me”, he instructs, breathing hard. “Stay with me.”

Her insides adjust to his length, and she whispers: “I’m fine.”

“I need to move, Finna”, he pants.

“You can, I’m fine.”

He licks his lips and moves back almost totally before surging forward again.

“Let me tell you how you feel. You are tight. And warm. And wet, so wet. Divine.”

The praise makes her belly flutter, and she brings her hands to his head, tangling her finger in his raven hair.

“Please…”

She doesn’t even know what she is begging for.

He lifts one of her legs, opening her further, the crook of her knee resting in the crook of his arm and takes a steady pace as he kisses her in a demanding manner, claiming her mouth.

The pressure inside her is growing once again, and after a particular jutting thrust, she groans and arches on the bed, and he slips his arms under her back, keeping her bowed, moving his hips, thrusting harder without hurting her.

It doesn’t hurt.

It’s delicious.

Divine.

“How do you feel?”

His voice is strained.

She’s gasping. _Moaning_. This is so intense.

“How do you feel?”

“Good” is the only word she can say.

His hand go from her nipple to her clit, and he circles it with his thumb.

“Let go, Finna.”

Pleasure crashes once again upon her, as he thrusts hard into her, and she begins to shake and lets a cry slip out of her lips, and she grunts as he curses and tenses above her, brows furrowed and jaw clenched.

“Oh, flower”, he rasps, burrowing his face in the crook of her neck and gathering her in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Banphrionsa" means 'Princess" in Irish gaelic ;)


	9. Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finna has to learn to trust.

A ray of light is shining through the thick curtains as the sun dawns, illuminating the pale skin of the beautiful Elf laying on her stomach in his bed. Her silver hair is spread on her shoulders and cascades down on the mattress. Her head is turned to the other side of the bed, resting on her forearm. One of her legs is stretched, the knee of her other leg is hiked to the hip, showing the inner thigh. There are bruises here and there, either from their training or from their fight with the Elves.

She has been brave, her opponent so much stronger than her, and yet, she has managed to protect herself and kill him. That makes him proud: selfishly proud of him because it means that his teaching has been efficient – and he usually is not one for patience – and proud of her for she has improved so swiftly and so well.

He takes a moment to admire the smooth skin of her back, the round cheeks of her ass, and propping himself on an elbow, he casts a glance between her legs, right to the pink shell of her cunt.

Beautiful, she is. Delicious.

He is smugly satisfied that she has offered herself to him last night, smugly satisfied of having sated her.

The mere sight of her naked body makes his cock twitch in desire.

He brings his hand to her back, and lazily fondles her skin with his fingertips, as he pecks light kisses and licks between her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back, attempting to cover every inch of her ivory skin with his mouth.

She stirs and sighs beneath him.

He trails down to the soft curve of her hip, fondling her buttocks, nipping her skin and inhaling her honeyed scent. It’s so sweet. So exquisite. Like a summer dew. _Intoxicating_.

She whimpers as he dips lightly a finger between her folds, and rolls on her back. He resumes his ministrations on her belly, up to her rib cage and her breasts, kissing, licking, sucking, and she quickly squirms and breathes hard.

“Is it morning?”

Her voice is sleepy and hoarse.

He groans, which makes her shiver. He bites the underside of a breast.

“What – _ah_ – are you doing?”

“Loving you.”

She sighs as he slips a finger inside her. She’s so tight, so warm. She’s already dripping with desire and the smell of her arousal is mouth-watering.

“But it’s daylight…”

“And?”

He never stops his kisses and bites.

“I thought – I thought – it was…“

He knows what she wants to say, but he wants her to tell it. So he withdraws his fingers and ceases his ministrations, his head propped on his fist. How satisfying it is to see her grit her teeth and furrow her brow in frustration.

“Mmmh?”

She looks shily at him, folding her arms on her chest.

“No, no, darling. I will have none of that. Not now that I have seen all of you.”

She hesitantly rests her hands on her stomach.

“What were you saying?”

Unsure, she whispers: “Is it not to be done at night?”

“What? Fucking?”

She blushes at the term, biting her lips, and nods. Chuckling, he leans above her, circles her waist with an arm, then swiftly rolls on his back, perching her on his lap. Immediately his hands cover her hips, her waist, her breasts.

“It is to be done, as you say, whenever you want to.”

One hand descends to her sex, and as he teases her clit and folds with his fingers, relishing in the lovely noises she makes, he purrs: “I can say you very much want to. You are making a mess of me, flower.”

He withdraws his hand, resting it on her hip, smearing her wetness on her skin.

“Proceed”, he commands, waving his hand as an invitation.

Oh, how lovely she is as her eyes widen.

“What?”

“Have your pleasure.”

Her eyes widen even more, if possible.

“Ride me, flower.”

She bits her lips, silent, look utterly mortified. He chuckles and slaps her ass.

She squeaks in outrage and jerks forwards, her cry ending in a moan as her clit rolls on his cock.

“See, flower? Just like that.”

As her hips roll back and forth, he cups her breasts and pinches lightly her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, watching her face and the perfect o her lips make as she tries to hold back her moans.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy virgins – because he considers her as one, what she has suffered must be healed only by love – but he finds that he enjoys teaching her and make her discover her own body. She’s shy and innocent, yet she trusts him. She trusts him so much she’s very compliant.

“Guide me inside you”, he rasps. “You are in charge. Choose your pace, your strength. I’m all yours, flower.”

She hesitantly lifts on her knees, pushing on his chest with one hand for balance, taking him in her other hand. He hisses.

“I’m sorry –“

He wraps his hand over hers and strokes lightly.

“Don’t be. You’re doing so well.”

She smiles. Holding his cock and her hand, he aligns himself to her entrance, and withdraws his hand. She understands what he is waiting for and starts going down on his cock, moaning loudly as she tilts her face to the ceiling.

His eyes ram everywhere: to his cock disappearing between her folds, her lithe waist undulating on him, her hard nipples, her face as she looks back at him with hooded eyes.

At first, she lifts herself up and down, but she rapidly sits on him and rolls her hips, as she discovers that her clit presses against his pubic bone.

“I’ve dreamt of this since I saw you on horseback yesterday”, he hisses. “Your hips moving with the horse, your thighs squeezing it… Oh, the Norns know I was _jealous_ of that mare.”

She bites her lower lip and moans as he lifts his hips upwards to meet her thrusts. She bends over him, her hair sliding on her shoulders like a silver curtain, before leaning back and holding his thighs.

“It’s so – _ah_ –“

“Say it.”

“Deep!”

She cries the word out in pleasure. Unable to hold anymore, he lifts his torso to sit and wraps her in his arms, holding her by the shoulders to anchor her on his cock while he fucks her. Her own arms hold his shoulders for balance, and he licks and nips her throat as she gasps and whimpers with each thrust.

Her moans are growing louder, and her inner walls are tightening around him. Grunting, he bites the crook of her neck, softly at first, then hard, and as he hears her cry, he feels her clenching around his cock and stiffening in his arms.

Giving her no time to recover, he turns her on her back and chases his own release, hiking one of her legs along his rib cage, rutting inside her, his orgasm exploding in a flash of white light and taking a loud grunt out of his throat. He pumps a few more times as he empties himself before rolling on his back again, breathing hard.

Finna curls against him, giggling and smiling idly at him. She is so beautiful, with her hair fanning on the pillow, her half-closed eyes, and this sated, tired expression on her face.

“Did you bite me?”

“I did”, he groans.

“I liked it.”

“Mmmh. I liked it too.”

He cups her pubis and whispers an infertility spell, just as he has done after their first time. She doesn’t have to endure an unwanted pregnancy, even though immortal beings turn out not to be the most fertile.

She tenses in his arms as a knock resonates at the door.

“What is it?”

Loki doesn’t even have to force himself to sound annoyed.

“Your Highnesses, the Allfather awaits you for breakfast.”

He rolls his eyes. This is nonsense. He gets out of the bed, covering Finna, and half-opens the door, not even bothering to hide his nakedness. Why pretend? The page has likely heard the sounds of their coupling. The boy’s eyes widen, and he turns his head, bushing hard.

“What are you saying, boy? Why would Odin enjoy the pleasure of my company so early?” he hisses.

He holds a grin as the boy’s throat works hard.

“Diplomatic reasons, your Highness. Your presence as well as the Princess’ are requested.”

 _Now_ , this is something as interesting as it is troubling. Loki narrows his eyes.

“Tell Odin we’ll be at his table in a few minutes. Next time, stay out of my chambers.”

When he turns to Finna, she is already swinging her legs out of the bed, picking her long tunic to cover her body. He is about to say something about modesty, but holds his tongue. _Give her time. She is new to this._

Avoiding his eyes, she scampers right to the bathroom and closes the door behind her. He huffs, and decides to get after her, and she squeaks in outrage as he enters. A bath is running and she is already cleaning the mess between her thighs with a wet cloth, turning her back o him as he enters.

“Leave me some privacy, please, Loki.”

“We have to hurry. You don’t have time to bathe.”

“I’ll be quick. I smell of you, it is improper.”

There is a pang of pain in his chest. The too familiar stab of rejection. She sure has changed her mind. He swallows, before asking: “Do you regret it?”

She drops the cloth, turns to him and wraps her arms around his neck.

“No, I don’t. Not a single moment.”

He lets a long, relieved breathe through his nose and rests his forehead on hers.

“I am scared of what is coming. My brother’s soldiers, your – the Allfather summoning us just after – this very morning. There is a link. This is… terrifying.”

“I’m afraid, too”, he admits.

Why deny it? He is not afraid of facing Odin, not afraid of fighting Nuada, when the time comes. What scares him most is to lose her. As much as he is reluctant to admit it, he feels that he is totally smitten with her, as Thor would call it.

“Let’s get ready. You don’t want to make a bad impression, do you?”

They walk side by side as they enter Odin’s dining room. The Allfather is already sitting at the far end of a long table, waiting for them, silently scowling.

She manages to keep her mask of shy politeness, hands folded on her belly, not daring to cast a glance to Loki. Servants lead them to their seats, face-to-face, and she gives a quick look at Loki. He’s sitting straight, his chin high, looking impossibly aloof and bored.

It’s like a snake contorts in her bowels. It is the first time she sees them together. Nothing good can come between a father and his child if they behave like that in presence of each other.

Compassion overflows her.

_How much he must miss his mother._

“Tea, my dear?” asks Odin in a stern voice.

“Please.”

Her voice is shier than she had wished. A maid fills a cup and deposits it next to her, and as another servant presents a dish covered with food, Odin resumes speaking.

“So, tell me about this… regrettable incident.”

She desperately tries not to shrink on her seat.

_Chin high, flower. You are royalty._

She casts a glance at Loki. Has she heard his _voice_ inside her head? Nevertheless, she inhales and squares her shoulders.

“Prince Loki took me to the mountains for a walk. He intended to spar on an uneven floor. We were attacked by three Elven soldiers sent by my brother, charging Asgard of abducting me.”

“So you both killed them?”

Loki huffs in annoyance. She stares at him, silently pleading for him to keep calm and quiet.

“I won’t go back to Bethmoora. You well know how my brother treated me.”

Odin inhales sharply at her little outburst.

“No, no, of course. I wonder how a prince who doesn’t respect his own sisters is expected to respect his subjects, not to mention Midgardians which he shares his planet with.

“He wants to kill Midgardians. To eradicate them, as he holds them responsible of the destruction of our natural inheritage.”

Odin grunts.

“Midg ardians are greedy, that is a fact. They shall perish by their own hand.”

He brings his cup to his lips and drinks a bit.

“Nevertheless, I’m afraid you won’t be able to avoid Prince Nuada very long.”

“And, if I may, why is that?”

Loki’s voice is low and dangerous.

“He has sent word, very early in the morning, that he wishes to pay us a call.”

She stiffens, her heart in her throat.

“A diplomatic visits, as well as a familial visit to his ‘beloved sister’, as he calls you in his letter.”

She manages to swallow before speaking in a shaky voice.

“No, please, no. Don’t allow it.”

“I can’t refuse a diplomatic visit, child.”

“But a private visit? To me? This is a trap. You know what he wants. Please don’t send me back!”

“Prince Nuada will treat the princess like a broodmare, you can’t possibly ignore this”, Loki says in an ominous tone.

She feels miserable. Her shame is so casually talked about.

“I am not ignorant of this”, Odin cuts peremptorily. “Incest is repellent. It is not in our ways.”

“Neither is it in ours”, she cries.

She throws herself at Odin’s feet. There is no other way. She must beg for her life. Tears of panic run on her cheeks.

“Stand up, child.”

“I am begging you, Allfather. Protect me. Don’t let him bring me back in Bethmoora!”

She remains on her knees, head bowed, fists clenched on her chest, for she is scared of irritating Odin if she touches him, if she grabs his robes as a compelling urge leads her to.

As Odin doesn’t answer, she tries not to sob, swallowing hard and focusing on her breath, as she has learnt to do since –

Loki’s dark, velvety voice speaks next to her. She hasn’t heard him walking.

“There is a solution. You know what I mean.”

Tilting her face, she realises that he is actually speaking to Odin. He turns to her and extends a hand to help her stand, then draws her back to her chair, petting the back of her hand with his thumb.

“This might cause an incident. Nuada might want – or refuse – to give his blessings.”

“I am determined not to let him lay a hand on her anymore.”

She doesn’t understand what they are talking about. The panic has paralyzed her mind, as it always does. She just feels a little hope, for Loki is trying to solve this issue.

“Well, my son, your mother would be proud of you. As I am.”

Loki’s mask falls. For a few moments, he looks so… vulnerable. His lips part in a quiet gasp, and after a few seconds, he bows his head and lets out a respectful whisper: “Father.”

How relieved he must feel, to be worthy in Odin’s eyes. A slight smile ghosts on her lips as she watches him. He is not one to let show his emotions, yet, he looks so –

“Fionnghuala of Bethmoora”, Odin calls in an authoritative voice. She turns to him, back straight, shoulders squared.

“My son here, Prince Loki, wishes to offer you protection with his body and with his life, if you will have him.”

A _proposal_. A very formal one. Not even formulated as a match.

_Another trap._

She hoped to find freedom in Asgard. She will be trapped in a marriage.

But what choice has she?

“Become my daughter”, Odin adds, “and no one shall ever harm you.”

She turns her eyes to Loki, who is looking at her expectantly. He extends his hand to her.

 _Trust me_ , his voice says in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. What is Finna's answer going to be?


	10. Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> I hope you are all well.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I had trouble writing this chapter: it's been hard to write, work from home and manage with my family during the lockdown.  
> I'm not happy with this chapter, but... Anyway.

“I consent.”

That is all she says. She is upset. Odin and Loki have talked of this marriage almost casually, for sure implicitly, between men, never making sure she understood nor asking about her opinion before Odin made his obnoxious proposal.

They knew she had no choice but to accept it, for her safety.

She stands, and Loki reaches for her hand. She slaps his, and nods courteously at the Allfather, muttering a polite “Forgive me” before turning around and hastily leaving the room.

Of course, she knows she loves him. But she fears he might come to regret his noble gesture. The God of Lies, of Deceit, of Chaos, eternally bound to a wife. This is not in his nature. This is unbelievable.

She is afraid about her brother coming to Asgard. A huge trap, which Odin is not doing anything to avoid. She knows Nuada. He is vengeful. He won’t accept this marriage, won’t accept that his _beloved_ sister, the womb for his heir, be removed from his reach.

He might try to kill Loki. _This_ , this she can’t allow, can’t afford.

She reaches his chambers. Must she stay here now? Is it not all the more improper? Can she be both his mistress and his intended? But she can’t stay alone, she wouldn’t bear it, so she enters, and crosses the room straight to the large balcony, in need of fresh air. As she breathes deeply, she understands that she can’t hide. She can’t hide from Nuada, who is coming for her. She can’t hide from Loki, whom she is going to be bound to. She can’t pretend she is a girl anymore. Whether she likes it or not, Nuada has made her a woman grown. She’d better face it.

So she passes in the bedroom and changes her dress to her training vest and large pants. Loki must still be with Odin, discussing about their wedding. She will train with Sif. It will be a good way to let off her anger and anxiety.

Just as she is about to exit the room to the training yard, Loki enters, frowning when he notices her garments.

“Where are you going? We need to talk.”

“About what? I don’t need to. Won’t you come training with me?”

He barks a laugh.

“Come now, Finna. ” Tell me why you are so angry.”

“I am not angry.”

Is it anger that fills her? Yes, because they have decided of this marriage without even talking about it aloud, as if she weren’t part of the match. But mostly, there is another powerful emotion swirling inside her head and chest.

“You are lying, _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n_.”

“Don’t call me that if it is not real. I am not angry, I am enraged. You and your father decided to bind me without even telling me what you were thinking of. Did you speak in his head too, Loki? Why couldn’t you explain it to me before?”

“But you gave your consent.”

“I have no choice!” she cries, “I need Asgard’s protection from Nuada!”

“There is nothing to fear from him. I will protect you, you know this.”

She knows her retort is vicious, cruel – and wrong, utterly wrong – before she speaks it. Nonetheless, she growls it.

“Yes, and in return I just need to be good and obedient.”

He pales and fixes an icy stare on her.

“Don’t you trust me?”

Is it all about trusting _him_? What about trusting _her_? Treating her as an _equal_? She doesn’t want to be a gentle pet to take care of.

“You ask me to trust you unreservedly, but how could I, when you don’t even care enough to talk to me?”

“Do you think I don’t care about you? Do you, really?”

His voice is a low snarl through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides.

“I am the God of Lies, which means I can’t have feelings? Is this what you are saying?”

She knows she is pushing him too far. She is unfair. She knows he cares for her. He _feels_ for her. She has willingly hurt him, just because she needed to unwind. He affects her in ways she has never thought of.

“I am sorry, Loki, I am saying things I don’t even mean. This is not me, I have never behaved like this before – before –“

 _Before she met him_.

“I know”, he breaths. “Your true self has been tamed for so long, it is time to let your strength out.”

“I am not only angry. I am scared, too.”

“Because _he_ is coming?”

She notices that he doesn’t pronounce her brother’s name. No need to make him real. She shakes her head.

“Because I’m afraid you will regret your offer, sooner or later. Because you are not one to be bound. One day, you will hate me for this, though I never asked for it.”

He grunts and walks cautiously to her, step by step, as if approaching a wild animal, and she lets him clasp her in his arms, leaning against his chest, burying her face in the black leather. She feels defeated, not strong enough to face him. Not wanting to.

“We did things backwards from the very beginning” he says softly. “First we have lived together as friends, then we have made love, now we wed. Is it not an entire married life in reverse?”

He manages to make her smile.

“I hope you’ll make love to me more than twice, my intended.”

He growls, lacing his fingers in her hair and angling her head to kiss her deep.

The next week is filled with identical days. They are to be wed within a fortnight, which awakes a lot of gossip in Asgard. Royal weddings aren’t so fast. She does her best to ignore people but even if she can draw back in her head and shut her ears and mind, she can’t always escape the stares on her.

In the mornings, they train and fight. He has pledged to protect her, but she insists upon being able to defend herself. Soon, she asks that he doesn’t hold back, and he reluctantly complies. But when he hits her in the ribs and sends her rolling against a pillar, a horrified look on his face, he insists that she spares with Sif and Hogun instead.

In the afternoons, she prepares her own wedding, since Frigga is not here to take care of the task. She has to oversee the food and mead supplies, make guests lists with Odin and Loki, attend to the flowers, and so on. She works with the steward, a wise man, very devoted to Odin, who accepts to teach her and treat her like she is in charge, now the Allmother is gone and she is about to be the only female in this family.

She spends a whole day secluded in a room of Frigga’s apartments with five seamstresses who prepare her wedding gown. The task is tedious. The women don’t seem to understand Elven customs not fashion, proposing golden fabrics, lavish laces, embroidered tulle. One whole morning is lost in choosing the fabric, or rather she cuts the endless discussion when finally she stands straight and haughty, imposing _her_ choice in an calm, yet authoritative voice she barely recognizes: a dress made of cream and teal-blue silks, with flowing sleeves and skirts, adorned with silver embroideries of intricate ivy leaves, and a large gown of heavy saffron silk. The seamstresses reluctantly accept and a few days later, she has a fitting, happily discovering a dress and gown that actually please her.

In the evenings, she dines with Loki, sometimes they join Odin in his apartments. She enjoys being in his chambers – _their_ chambers – cuddling in the couch, chatting with each other, playing chess, making love. It is even sweeter than their time in the tower, even if, when she mentions Frigga’s rooms, he sinks in a dark, brooding silence. She lets him mourn, cuddling against his chest, selfishly relishing in being held flush against him.

By the end of the week, late in the afternoon, they hear Bifrost letting someone in. Finna and Loki are walking in the gardens. For once they have managed to escape their duties and have a walk together. It is like courtship, although if a hedge is thick enough to hide them, Loki kisses her in a sinful manner, making her blush. She stiffens in fear as she hears a booming voice, whereas Loki rolls his eyes in unhidden annoyance.

“Thor. Welcome back, brother”, he says without conviction, merely turning himself towards the intruder.

The blond, hulky giant Finna has met one single time merrily embraces Loki with a roaring laughter, engulfing his brother’s slender figure in his huge arms and chest. Loki once more rolls his eyes.

“How well recovered you are, brother! I was so happy to hear about your healing!”

Loki returns the embrace with a slight smile.

“Where have you been, brother?”

“I had to help restoring peace and balance after the Convergence and the Dökkalfar attempted to wage war on the Nine.”

Turning to Finna, he respectfully bows his head.

“Princess, I hope I didn’t startle you. You seem to do very well, I’m happy to see you again.”

“So am I, Prince Thor”, she answers with a friendly smile and a curtsy.

“Congratulations for your engagement”, Thor offers, smiling to both of them. “I am most pleased that you have found a beautiful and gentle lady to tame your temper, Loki.”

Before she can answer anything, Loki retorts in a cautious, velvety voice.

“So you already know my future bride?”

She glances at him. She knows him well enough by now to see how his guarded countenance and pressed lips show his jealousy. _Oh, by the Tuatha Dé Dannan_. Must he behave like a child?

“We have met once, in Mother’s apartments”, says Thor.

“A few days after my arrival in Asgard. I was still… wounded, back at that time. The Allmother has been very kind to me, I shall be eternally grateful.”

Thor bows his head while Loki casts his eyes down at her comment.

“May I join you for your walk?”

“No, you may not”, cuts Loki.

“Please”, she says at the same time.

She watches Loki with a mischievous glint in her eyes and lips curled in an impish smile. He seems to consider something for a few seconds, then sighs and nods. She beams at him and stands on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, which elicits a deep chuckle from Thor.

They resume their walking, accompanied by the God of Thunder. He is nothing but kind and polite, and asks Loki about his wound and his healing. The Dark God answers evasively, so Finna soon answers Thor’s questions, merrily chatting with him. When Thor starts speaking about his victory upon Malekith, Loki stifles a sigh and she takes his arm, stroking his inner elbow in a soothing manner. He casts a side glance to her, his lips slightly curling.

 _You will be punished for this_ , she hears in her mind.

 _I’m looking forward to it, my love_ , she silently answers.

This time, he chuckles, which startles Thor.

“Brother? I fail to see what is funny –“

“Forgive me, brother. You know I can’t help myself.”

She bites her lower lip to prevent her laughter. Thor notices her expression and stops abruptly, slightly bowing.

“Forgive me. I’m boring you with tedious considerations when young lovers want to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Oh, no, please, Prince Thor”, she starts with an appeasing gesture, “don’t misunderstand our mischievous behaviour. I am most happy to hear about Midgard.”

Thor smiles gratefully, is eyes shining with honest trust, and bows before spinning and heading to the palace. She watches his tall frame walk away.

“You never told me you already knew Thor.”

Loki’s voice is low, and cautious.

“There is no reason to be jealous, _mo ghr_ _á_. I was a mess, scared of my own shadow. I was having tea with the Allmother, barely able to behave properly with your mother, trying to chat politely. She took great care that I did not be alone, that I could feel at ease. He came unannounced and when I saw him barge without having time to brace myself, I panicked.”

“He frightened you, that big oaf.”

Her head hangs down with the painful memory.

“It was merely a week after – after my arrival. He was so strong, so self-confident, I couldn’t bear it. I felt trapped. And then, he looked at me, waiting for me to say something. He didn’t know what I had suffered.”

He cups her cheek with one hand, stroking it lightly with his thumb, his other hand resting on her shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on. When her silence stretches, he finally asks what happened.

“You know that, you already found me in a panic attack. I broke. Curled myself in a corner like an animal.”

He gathers her in his arms, and she rests her head on his collarbones.

“I was so ashamed that he knew what had happened to me, I barely exited my room the next weeks. Solitude was less difficult to bear than the presence of a warrior.”

“Then how is it that you didn’t fear me?”

She draws back enough to raise her face to his.

“I was afraid of you. Don’t you remember?”

He frowns and casts his eyes down, as if ashamed by his behaviour the first time she tried to wash him. The only time, either, for Gullveig took care of the task after she froze in terror at the sight of his erect cock.

“I regret this mischievous trick.”

She hums in acknowledgement.

“The days after, you were sometimes harsh, but mostly kind to me. You helped me very much.”

“No, Finna, _you_ helped me. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

She smiles at him.

“Eir was right when she said we could share mutual aid.”

Loki rests his forehead against hers, cradling her, eyes shut. She watches his face through her eyelashes, his straight nose and thin lips she likes kissing so much. She knows he is thinking of something, or processing a strong emotion. So she gives him time, savouring his embrace.

Several minutes later, he sighs through his nose.

“I am sure that my mother rescued you because she has foreseen us. She knew we could heal each other, love each other.”

His voice is low, and weak. His sounds so vulnerable in his confession that her heart is about to explode with the need to take care of him, to protect him.

“Oh, Loki”, she whispers, tightening the embrace.


	11. Vowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finna and Loki make oaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had trouble writing this one, until - well, I managed to.

The crowd is gathered in the main courtyard. The people of Asgard has come to see their Prince wed the Ljósalfr. She is standing at the entrance of the courtyard, in her blue silk dress and heavy gown, her hair freely flowing in her back, her head adorned with a circle of intricate silver bands.

The crowd moves aside to let her cross the courtyard up to the royal family. No one is here to deliver her to her husband, she will have to walk alone. Like an orphan. She hears comments from the common people.

_Poor motherless thing._

_All alone._

_Why has she no family?_

Odin and his sons are standing on the steps before the gates of the palace, Frigga’s absence impossible not to notice. For once, Loki is placed on Odin’s side, clad in his ceremonial armour of green and black leather, his golden horned helmet making him look tall and intimidating as ever. A slender woman with long white-blond hair stands behind them. Sigyn, the Goddess of Oaths. The ceremony has to take place in the open, for all to witness.

She has carefully schooled her features, wearing her mask of shy politeness.

Silence stretches over the courtyard.

They are waiting for her.

She inhales deeply and, casting her eyes down in modesty, takes a step, then another, in direction of the steps.

She tries to focus on her breath, shutting her mind to the murmurs of the crowd, then to the cheers echoing as she moves forwards, her heart furiously pounding inside her chest.

Finally, she climbs the few steps separating her from her new family and, stopping on Loki’s side, offers him her hand. He takes it and guides her to Sigyn, then rotates her so they are standing face to face, and takes her second hand.

She dares to take a look at him. He watches her lazily, looking cold and indifferent. He seems bored by the ceremony. She knows that he is wearing a mask, that he is acting aloof just like Asgardians think he is, but nevertheless, she feels a pang in her chest, and lowers her eyes to escape this official façade.

Sigyn recites the vows they obediently repeat, pledging affection. Fidelity. Support. Respect. Obedience.

Then, they exchange rings that will mark their new status in the eyes of everyone. Neither of them has seen the ring that has been made for them yet. He drops one of her hands and slides a golden band on one of her fingers. As she casts a glance on it, she marvels at the golden snake magically moving to adjust her finger’s size, and smiles, finally looking at him. Even if his features are still schooled, the glint in his eyes reassures her and she lets out a faint relieved sigh. Then she slips the ring she has prepared for him, a large silver ring figuring intricate roots with a snake sliding in them. It looks beautiful on his hand and she’s pleased with herself.

Odin’s voice booms loudly over the attendance.

“May the Norns bless this union!”

 _May the Tuatha Dé Dannan help us_ , she thinks.

Loki takes a step closer and leans down on her. He brushes his hand from her elbow up to her shoulder, and as she raises her face to meet his, he lightly presses his lips on hers in a chaste kiss.

As the crowd loudly cheers and claps, she feels a warm wave coursing through her, through him, and Loki’s hand tightens around her upper arm, as to prevent her drawing back. _Sei_ _ð_ _r_. But not his. Sigyn’s seiðr is bonding them. She hadn’t fully understood the power of this ceremony, and, now overflown by the love and trust she feels for her husband, she melts in his embrace.

And then, it is as if she is struck by a lighting.

Pain and a blinding fury fill her mind, a harsh voice snarling in her ears.

_Darling traitor-sister. How could you dare?_

The pain is deafening, radiating from her head down to her chest, eliciting a groan in her throat. She stiffens and clutches at Loki.

_I will kill him with my own hands._

As her knees give away and she is about to faint, he scoops her, frowning in concern, and strides into the palace.

A few moments later, the pain is gone, only letting her mind numb. She feels limp, but she enjoins Loki to put her down and he complies, however gathering her in his arms.

“What happened?” he whispers urgently, not wanted to be heard as Thor and Odin are fast approaching.

“ _He_ felt the bonding. He is filled with anger and bloodlust.”

“I meant my vows, _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n_. I will protect you.”

Odin and Thor reach them, and the Allfather’s scowling shake her.

“What happened, girl?”

This patronizing tone is highly annoying. She’s tired of being treated like a child. Loki releases her enough so that she can turn to answer.

“My apologies, Allfather. I was so nervous I barely slept and ate. That was foolish of me.”

Odin’s glare is quite eloquent.

“Marrying the God of Lies does not a good liar of you. You’d better speak.”

Her husband’s hand stroke lightly over her garments, in a reassuring manner. As she casts a glance at him, he nods in agreement. She swallows hard.

“My brother felt the bonding.”

“How?”

“We – share a connection. I can sometimes hear him in my mind. I’ve been able to keep him at bay for a few months, but I felt his rage and – and – murder urges. He wants to kill Loki.”

Odin and Thor share a sharp glance. Loki circles an arm around her waist for support.

“Come, _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n_ , you need to rest.”

“But the feast?”

“Later. Let’s rest first, so you’ll be strong enough to attend tonight. They will manage without us.”

They start walking away but Odin’s deep voice booms once more and she stiffens at the sound.

“Loki, we have to discuss.”

Her husband releases her and spins on his heels, casting an icy stare at the Allfather.

“It is out of the question that I leave my wife for the moment. You will be gladly welcomed in our quarters. We shall talk while Finna rests.”

“As you wish. Go ahead, Thor and I will join you in a few minutes.”

Loki cocks an eyebrow in surprise, but never leaving his composed demeanour, turns back to her, giving her a concerned look, and takes her hand.

They walk silently, and she can say he’s worried about her. His face and shoulders are tense, he casts side glances on her, his jaw working in anger. She feels tired. Exhausted. When he opens the doors, she feels like she’s going to collapse, and once again she’s scooped in strong arms and carried through the room, straight to the bed. He lays her down on the thick covers and sits on the edge of the bed, next to her, helping her out of the heavy gown.

“Rest and sleep, my beautiful wife. I’ll wake you up in a few hours.”

“I like it when you call me wife.”

He leans over her and gives her a light kiss. Then cupping her forehead with his palm, he whispers a spell that sends her in a slumber.

When she cracks an eye open, the light is waning. It is late in the afternoon. She jolts and sits upright on the bed, just to realize that the door is open and masculine voices can be heard in the next room. Loki seems to have heard her moving, for he is suddenly standing in the doorframe, arms lazily crossed, watching her.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

He chuckles mischievously.

“May I remind you that _I_ casted the spell?”

She drops her head in embarrassment, gets up and walks to the sitting room, where Thor is comfortably sprawled on a sofa. She sits on the other sofa, Loki next to her.

“I hope you feel better, my Lady”, says Thor with genuine kindness.

She nods silently, then alternatively looks at the two brothers. Both of them seem to be so relaxed. But she can tell from the glance that Thor sends to Loki that he is nervous, and the way Loki’s lips were bitterly pressed shows his displeasure enough. She swallows before talking.

“Did you manage to talk with the Allfather yet?”

“Yes, and he is currently with Heimdall and Tyr.”

Tyr, the God of Justice and – _War_.

She swallows hard.

“Did he decide something yet?”

Thor sighs and Loki snorts.

“He won’t do anything. We are to receive the royal delegation of Bethmoora during its diplomatic visit. We can’t be hostile to our guests, we can’t cause a war.”

She frowns in concern.

“Nothing about –“

Loki gathers her in his arms and lightly kisses her forehead.

“I won’t let him hurt you anymore. I won’t let you out of my sight while they stay here. You have my word.”

“I will keep a close eye to them, either”, says Thor’s deep voice.

She should be reassured as she leans into her husband’s chest, yet she feels a lump in her throat, and her gut tightens as if a snake was contorting in her belly. A dreadful idea forms at the back of her mind, and she tries to stifle it at once for it questions his trustworthiness, but –

Loki hums and breaks the embrace.

“What is it, Finna?”

“Nothing”, she manages with a smile. “I trust you.”

Because it is true, she means it. She has pledged love and respect, what is it worth if she doesn’t trust him blindly? He watches her intently through narrowed eyes, just as if he can read her mind. But tonight, she chooses to cast her worries away.

“It is our wedding, _mo ghr_ _á_ , it is time for joy and feast. Let us think about the two of us.”

Thor stands abruptly and thumps his brother’s shoulder with a loud laugh.

“Well, the Lady Fionnghuala is right! It is time to celebrate! We will wait for you lovebirds in the great hall.”

Loki rolls his eyes and she smiles at her husband’s brother as he strides away, exiting their chambers.

“You like him,” he snarls.

She giggles.

“He is kind. But he is too loud. I prefer my taciturn, brooding husband.”

He hums once more. She goes to the wardrobe and picks a new dress.

“Are you going to change?”

“Of course! This one is wrinkled. Won’t you help me with the girdle?”

A few minutes later, they enter the great hall, where the banquet is dressed. She wears a linden-green silk robe with a mulberry girdle, and a heavy mulberry gown on it. Loki holds her hand onto his, dressed in his ceremonial armour and helmet. Claps and loud cheers reverberate as they appear from the royal quarters, and she smiles benevolently at the crowd, whereas he maintains his lazy and cold composure.

She casts a keen eye around her, checking that everything is in order for the feast, as Loki guides her to the high table where Odin, Thor and the other Æsir are already sitting.

Copious amounts of food are already displayed onto the tables, as well as copious amounts of wine, ale and mead. They stand before their chairs and Loki grabs a flacon of a mead specially brewed for weddings, pours it in a large goblet and raises a toast.

“My beautiful bride, Fionnghuala of Bethmoora!”

The crowd cheers as he drinks a long gulp and hands the goblet to her, as sharing a goblet is a symbol of affection and support. She mimics him and drinks the strong mead which tastes of autumn honey and yeast, never breaking eye contact with him. When she puts the goblet on the table and they both sit, she is positively beaming.

“I shall never tire of seeing you wearing green, though I’d prefer a darker shade of green”, he mischievously whispers in her ear.

“Congratulations, Princess”, says Odin. “The feast is stupendous. You are made of the stuff of queens.”

“The Allfather is too good to me”, she answers, nodding in respect.

Loki takes her hand and lightly squeezes it, then casts his helmet aside before filling her plate with venison and vegetables that she is not sure she will be able to eat.

The tables are covered in roasted meats, terrines, pies, dishes full of spiced vegetables, piles of fruit, honeyed cakes and various sorts of delicacies. She smiles, knowing their guests will eat and drink their fill. Thor and his companions have already downed several cups of mead and their loud roars of laugh echo in the halls. She finds it quite vulgar, yet indulgently smiles, and a glance at Loki’s wrinkled nose and tightly pressed lips is enough to know he thinks the same.

She manages to enjoy the evening, though she feels like playing a part, for she has never been at ease with being the centre of the attention. Yet she succeeds in acting the way she’s expected to, and even dances with her husband, then his brother. When Loki takes her hand from Thor’s large paw, she smiles at him and discreetly pleas for leaving the feast. The Warriors Three and the Lady Sif are boisterously calling Thor to join a drinking contest, and she definitely doesn’t want to see any of it.

“I feel exhausted, let us retire”, she whispers.

He nods.

Loki lifts his chin and raises their both hands up to their eye level. Odin turns his head to them and casts an intent look upon her, which causes the snake in her bowels contorting once more.

_He can’t be trusted._

_He let me wed his son for a purpose._

“And now, my beautiful bride, let us not tarry any longer”, Loki announces with a wicked grin.

Immediately, people cheer and laugh, a few crude jokes flying thick and fat.

“Brace yourself, Princess, for you have fainted with a mere kiss!”

She frowns and blushes furiously, blood rushing in her cheeks and ears, but Loki strokes the back of her her hand with his thumb and answers with a joyful laugh something she doesn’t even hear over her embarrassment. Yet she feels him gently pull her hand, and follows suit. As they make their way towards the corridor leading to their chambers, she is grateful that they already know each other intimately, for she would have been utterly mortified, as a maiden. All this noise and bawdiness makes her all the more eager to find refuge in the shelter of their chambers, and as they pass the threshold, she grabs Loki’s hand, collects her skirts in the other hand and runs, giggling. A few Einherjar stand guard in the corridors, silently watching them.

Loki opens his doors and swiftly loses them as soon as she has followed inside, isolating them from the world.

Platters covered with fruit and delicacies are lain on the table, along with a decanter full of a dark wine. There is enough food for them to be secluded inside this room during three days, should they want to stay.

But Loki doesn’t notice, for he reaches for her and gives her a kiss that is as tender as it is fervent. His hands slide on her waist and to her back, and he closes his arms around her, leaving her no choice but to clutch his shoulders for balance as she leans forward and presses her belly flush against him. She unclasps his armour and doublet, discarding them on the floor, revelling in the warmth of his skin through the simple black tunic. There is no more awkwardness in her hands: she knows what she is doing, what she wants, what she longs for. She grabs the hem of the garment and pulls it over his head, as he pliantly raises his arms. She will never tired of the sight and touch of his chest, all taut, lean muscle and soft, pale skin.

He, on the contrary, is slow, patient, and – _cautious?_

She pulls back and watches him, narrowing her eyes in curiosity when she notices his guarded gaze.

“What is it, _husband_?”

She emphasises the word to tease him, which proves efficient for he smiles softly, his eyes warming at her words. But he soon frowns, in a way that shows incertitude and vulnerability.

He chews his bottom lip and slightly parts his mouth, inhaling, before he talks.

“You must know this is the last part of the bonding.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe – maybe we shouldn’t – _He_ could feel it, too.”

She knows what he is talking about. He is worried about her. He doesn’t want to expose her in this intimate moment.

Love and trust overflows her, and, finding herself unable to tell him how much she loves him, she only leans forward and kisses him more. When at last she breaks the kiss for breath, he whispers anxiously: “I am serious. You might not want him to feel our – coupling.”

She lets a laugh through her nose at the word.

“Does it mean I won’t be able to lay with my husband in fear that the first _coupling_ will ensure our bonding?”

He swallows, his throat working hard. Then he nods.

“So, the sooner the better. We can’t escape his coming, can we? Let him know I have freed myself of him.”

She doesn’t know how she can feel brave. Maybe he gave her his courage?

He frowns, unsure, but she smiles at him, so he smiles back and fondles her neck.

“My brave, brave wife”, he purrs, and pulls her into a searing kiss.

He wastes no time undressing her, and when her dress pools around her feet and she steps out of it, he lifts her, his hands under her thighs, and she wraps her legs around his waist for support as he walks to their bed.

Loki lays her on the mattress and she crawls back, watching him get rid of his boots and trousers, and extends her arms to him, thighs spread, acutely conscious of how wanton she must look in offering herself like this.

But this is more than making love.

This is giving.

This is bonding.

When she receives him and he passionately works her to ecstasy, she opens her mind, her eyes focused on the pleasured face of her husband, and mentally calls Nuada.

_Now you can see me, brother._

_See my husband._

_See how much I love him._

_With him, I don’t fear you anymore._

Loki grunts above her.

“I solemnly vow to – _ah_ – kill him with my hands”, he growls. “No matter the cost, I will protect my wife.”

As her orgasm tears a cry from her throat and a furious roar echoes in her mind, she thinks in triumph: _I am free._


	12. Family reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki meets his wife's siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone.  
> I wasn't happy at all with the chapter I posted first, so I deleted it and rewrote it now that my mind is clear.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

They take place side by side in Odin’s halls, on the left of the throne where the Allfather is sitting, Gungnir in his hand, his crows Hugin and Munin perched on his shoulder. Thor is standing on the right side of the throne, Mjöllnir hung at his belt.

Loki is standing tall and bored, masking his nervousness with casual arrogance. Casting a side glance at his wife next to him, he notices her shallow breath and livid complexion. He takes her hand and squeezes it, giving her a slight reassuring smile as she lays her pale, worried eyes on him. Her scarred cheeks are still a bit flushed from the deep, passionate kiss he gave her just before entering the throne room.

Each and every time he watches her, he can’t explain himself how comes that his chest feels like it is expanding, just as if his heart grew and had to make some place. How he feels the urge to touch her, to pull her in a tight embrace, to smell her hair and kiss her skin.

Yet they are here, formally waiting for the diplomatic visit of her siblings.

They have repeated this scene, over and over.

He has read her mind to see her brother in her memory, then has cast an illusion on himself, taking Nuada’s features.

He will never be able to forget her reaction on the first attempt, even if they had discussed it and she knew she would actually be in front of Loki.

How she stiffened and blanched in terror. The horror and revulsion in her eyes, before she retreated, not even able to look at him, her hands extended in self-protection and pleading.

How she ran in their bedroom and hid in a corner, behind their bed, shaking and heaving.

How many hours it took to calm her down.

Yet, she was the one to ask for another try the following day. They talked about it for a long moment, figuring how to react, how to help her processing it. How to change her fear into anger, and how to use her anger to be strong in front of him.

And then, when she was ready, he morphed into Nuada, and she watched him with ire and hatred, her face hard, jaws clenched and lips pressed. He approached slowly, self-confident and haughty just like she had shown him in her mind, his chin high and head tilted on one side, a smug smile baring his teeth.

“Sweet Fionnghuala”, he murmured, observing her shiver of repulsion.

As he lifted a hand to touch her hair, she reacted at once, stepping aside, blocking his arm with her wrist and viciously punching him between his mouth and nose. Definitely not practicing but actually fighting.

He waved away the illusion at once, watching her with shock and amusement when he touched his nose to find it bloody. Hatred made place to bewilderment in her eyes, and as she rushed to check the injury, he couldn’t help embracing her tightly, laughing with pride.

“You are positively ferocious, _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n_. I can’t tell you how much I love you.”

Each and every day, they have practiced together, the last part of the training being conversation and dinner with the illusions of her siblings. She had managed quite well, but then she knew they weren’t real.

Now, as she is waiting at his side, he can tell that her nervousness is growing with each minute.

“Remember, _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n._ You are above them now. I will protect you. I will not fail you.”

She only nods to his whispered words, unable to speak for she is choking up.

He leers mischievously at her.

“Besides, have I already told you that you are beyond beautiful in my colours?”

“Yes, you have. Five times, I reckon”, she answers with an slight smile.

She is wearing a dark green silk dress and a black brocade gown matching his armour and cloak. He has insisted upon her wearing these colours, which she had argued might be interpreted as a provocation. His only answer had been a devious smile. Her hair is plaited in her back and her forehead is circled with silver.

He leans to her, knowingly trampling on protocol, and purrs in her ear.

“I can’t wait to hitch this skirt up your pretty thighs and devour you.”

She blushes and giggles, and he gives her a wicked smile.

“Behave, you scoundrel”, she chastises him in a low voice.

He doesn’t bother to hide his cheeky smile. Let _him_ know how much they love each other, how well they get along together.

When the great doors of the halls open, revealing two forms wearing Elvish garments in the golden waning sunlight flooding through the gates, she gasps almost unaudibly and turns her eyes to him in quiet desperation.

“You can do it, flower. You are stronger than you know.”

Her siblings slowly walk towards the throne, along with a party of noble Elves.

A loud _bang_ resonates in the halls as Odin hits the floor with Gungnir.

“Stay vigilant”, he whispers before wearing his aloof, arrogant mask, turning his stare to the two Elves standing in front of Odin’s throne.

They are splendid, both of them wearing matching colours. The Princess Nuala is wearing a black dress opening on a crimson underskirt, her waist clad in a golden girdle. The Silverlance Prince is impressive, his narrow waist clad in a crimson silk scarf, his black doublet adorned with jet beads. Their party is also dressed in black. Their long, white hair is loose on their shoulders. Black garments, white hair. Wouldn’t it be for their pale skin, it reminds him all too much of the Dökkalfar.

_Coincidence?_

_Tactlessness?_

He feels his jaw tightening at the reminder of Mother’s death. Wants to shut himself in his chambers and mourn, after having killed the all lot of them.

The Elven siblings don’t bow before Odin, only nodding gracefully and standing straight as they chat with the Allfather in customary politeness.

“I don’t think I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you, Prince Nuada of Bethmoora, whereas I remember your twin sister”, Odin says in his booming voice.

“Ah, I do believe I was in exile when you last visited our father.”

“Please, remind me the reason to this exile. My memory is not what it used to be.”

Loki turns his head to his father, barely able to stiffen a smile at the Allfather’s trick. Odin’s memory never proves to be deficient, and his crows, now perched on his shoulders, help him to remember everything.

“I disagreed with my father’s truce with the humans.”

Odin chuckles.

“It seems that every king experiences a disapproval of his princelings.”

Loki catches Thor’s gaze. They both have questioned Odin’s decisions, ending in their leaving of Asgard. Thor looks utterly bored by the scolding, but Loki manages to wink in attempt to humour him.

“Well, this happened before my sweet sister Fionnghuala was even born.”

 _Here we are_. Nuada changes the subject of the conversation. So soon. He seems to be very straight.

“I longed to see her again.”

Loki hates how Nuada’s eyes linger on Finna, roaming all over her figure.

He can feel her distress. She’s rigid, her breath shallow. He leans upon her and whispers “Breathe” in her ear, squeezing her hand to remind her that she is safe with him. Nuada notices it and sets a dark glare on him, his mouth tightly shut in anger. He holds the stare, a thin smile on his lips, imagining his blade entering between the Elf’s ribs.

 _Delightful_.

“What is the purpose of our visit, Prince of Bethmoora?” Odin asks in his booming voice.

Nuada turns his gaze to the Allfather, immediately schooling his features to appear calm and courteous.

“I would like to require your advice and, possibly, your help. We have issues with humans. They are a threat to our people.”

“I’m afraid our diplomatic relationship with Midgard is not at its best since Prince Loki attempted to destroy one of their cities.”

_There again._

He lowers his head, hiding his embarrassment and anger behind a slight smirk. Tries to forget what – or rather _who_ – led him _there_. Tries to forget the pain and terror.

“But first”, Nuada continues, “let me say how my twin-sister and I are joyful and relieved to see our dearest sister Fionnghuala again.

In the corner of his eye, Loki notices her tense shoulders and wide eyes. He presses his fingers against hers and hears her releasing a shaky breath.

“My twin and I intend to congratulate the newlyweds”, Nuada offers. “We were surprised to hear about your wedding. It seemed quite… hasty. Father can’t understand why he couldn’t deliver you to your husband, _sister-mine_.”

His false smile is sickening. This is why he married her. To protect her against this insane Elf.

She can’t answer. She is frozen in terror. Their training has been useless.

The Prince leans forward slightly, smiling cruelly.

“May your lifetime be filled with love and happiness. I look forward to get to know my new brother.”

 _Oh_. This definitely sounds like an antiphrasis. A barely veiled wish of woe and bitterness, and a threat of murder. His jaw clenches in growing anger.

But as Finna can’t answer, he speaks.

“Thank you, Prince. I absolutely adore your sister.”

Better shush the weaknesses that could be used against them.

_She saved my life._

_She trusts me._

_She has made my life worth living again._

Nuada chuckles darkly.

“Yes, who wouldn’t?”

They retreat to their chambers before the feast. Another tedious task to perform.

She looks positively exhausted, her shoulders hunched and head down, yet she can’t stop fidgeting her hands in nervousness.

She turns to him and circles her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his chest, and he returns the embrace. She needs to be comforted, and truth be told, he would not refuse to cuddle.

But he also needs to release his tension.

To fight.

Or to fuck.

A much better option.

He kisses her dark and lazy, and his hands on her back move down to her hips and bottom, stroking her through the heavy silk of her dress.

“What are you doing?” she asks, breaking the kiss.

“Helping us to relax.”

He kisses her back and guides her through the room to his bed. He pushes her on it and grips the fabric of her garment.

“Loki, what –“

“I told you before: I can’t wait to hitch this dress up. I love it when you wear my colours.”

She props herself on her elbows, watching him hike her skirts up and kneel between her legs, fondling her smooth, pale skin while he pushes the silk out of his way. He pulls her undergarments down, slowly sliding them on her legs, down to her ankles, and tosses them asides.

Then he begins to kiss her silky skin and slowly, _slowly_ trails from her ankle to her knee, lightly stroking her with his fingertips. From the angle of her hips and her arched back, he can tell she has lain back on the mattress. He lazily kisses one leg, then the other. After a few minutes, she lets out a frustrated sound and tries to touch his head, but he draws back.

“Come now, darling, be still”, he scolds.

“Loki, we don’t have time –“

“Yes we do. I have been thinking of this since you’ve slipped into that dress today.”

His thumb resumes a stroking movement on her inner knee, and she loudly exhales through her nose.

“Will you stay still for me?”

She nods, eyes shut in anticipation.

“Good.”

He approaches his face of her legs, not quite touching her skin with his lips, and softly blows, grinning when she shivers and softly moans.

He loves teasing her like this. Taking his time and driving her mad with desire. Worshiping her body.

His responsive little Elf. So soft and warm.

He is already painfully hard and wants nothing more than slamming into her, but he restrains himself. His pleasure will be worth the wait.

Kissing and licking her inner thighs, he savours her gasps and breath, _slowly_ moving up to her hips, nipping at the skin, chuckling at her reactions. He can smell the salty fragrance of her arousal, and his mouth waters. When he finally comes to her folds, he draws back a few seconds to admire it. Pink and smooth, like the inside of a shell.

“Loki”, she sighs.

Growling, he leans down to kiss her, and smirks against her flesh when he takes a long lick and she whines. She _tastes_ like a shell, soft and salty and warm. She is so wet already. Always so ready for him. So soft, so pliant. So trustful. She lets out a moan and wriggles.

“Loki, please.”

“Shhhh. Be still.”

He lightly nibs her folds, tracing her opening with two fingers, smearing her wetness and enjoying the undulation of her hips. He sprawls his other hand between her pubic bone and navel, pressing her down on the mattress, and slides two fingers inside her while licking her clit with the flat of his tongue. She writhes and sighs, begging to him. And so he feasts on her, keeping his word. Devouring her.

It doesn’t take long before she moans and arches and clenches around his fingers.

He climbs above her, only giving her a few seconds to breathe while he fumbles with the laces of his trousers and pushes them past his hips, kissing her jaw and neck all the while. He closes his lips on the soft skin under her ear and sucks at it as he slowly enters her. She sighs, clutching his shoulders and lifting her knees to take him deeper as he slides into her.

He wants to fuck her rough, but he holds himself back at first, slowly sliding in and out.

“Please”, she whines.

“Eager wife”, he chuckles.

“Your fault.”

He chuckles all the more and gives a hard thrust, eliciting a _very_ satisfying sound at the back of her throat. And so he keeps going, slowly sliding out before thrusting back hard. Her hands trail down his back to his bum, and he groans as she grips it and pushes her hips against him. That is all he needs to give in, and he begins to slam into her, bracing himself on one elbow to press on her clit with his other hand.

Her warmth, her soft wet flesh, her moans, this is all too much. He spills inside her with a loud groan when she clenches around him.

Loki has insisted that they dance. She doesn’t feel the mood for it, but has compliantly followed him as he led her to the group dance. She is now swirling with him, Thor, Sif and the Warriors Three. Nuala has joined their group, whereas Nuada is still sitting at the high table, speaking with Odin. She tries to enjoy it, but feels the weight of her brother’s scowl on her. His anger and hatred fill the air, though he has been nothing but polite and civil during the feast.

She hasn’t been able to eat much, her stomach clenched with fear. She didn’t want to dance, didn’t want to show off, but he has finally made up her mind, insisting that she would be with friends only.

Volstagg hasn’t let go of his drinking horn and spills mead with each move. It finally manages to make her giggle as Fandral catches her waist and swiftly lifts up so that her dress won’t catch the drops flowing around.

The music stops and she turns as she feels a hand on her upper arm, smiling.

Her smile falls as she faces Nuada.

He is staring at her, stone-faced, but his eyes are cold and hard, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“Sister-mine”, he whispers, lifting his hand to her hair, brushing her plait from her shoulder and revealing the love-mark under her ear.

A low growl echoes in his chest as his eyes flip to it.

She is petrified, her heart in her throat, like under the stare of snake.

But then, the musicians play a very lively tune, and Thor comes out of nowhere, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Come dance, sister”, he roars with a mighty laugh, and swirls away with her.


	13. The Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which diplomacy proves to be trying.

“Humans are destroying Earth, their greed eating all its resources. The wildlife is dying. My world is dying and my race is fading. I came to ask for your help. Help us survive.”

They are gathered in Odin’s private audience room. The Allfather is sitting in a large chair, reclining against the high back. Facing him, Thor looks comfortable enough, hiding his nervousness in an almost convincing manner. Between them, there are two sofas facing each other. The Elven twins are occupying one, while Loki is sprawling on the other, his legs nonchalantly spread. He is observing the Prince in front of him, imagining different painful ways to kill him, glad that Finna is safe in the training yard with Sif and the Warriors Three.

“Greed is in human nature. There is hardly anything I could do”, answers Odin.

A typical answer from his father. This matter is foreign to Asgard, therefore it is not of his concern at all. Truth be said, he can’t blame him for now. He doesn’t care for the fate of these Elves, either.

But Nuada continues with his request.

“There are too many of them. Limiting – or rather diminishing – their numbers would ensure that Earth and its remaining creatures continue to exist.”

This Elf might be as insane as Finna has tried to warn him. Before Odin can even answer, he blurts out his question.

“Are you suggesting”, he asks cautiously, “a massive human genocide in order to safeguard your people?”

“Why, they certainly are a plague, aren’t they?”

“This is madness”, he huffs, slowly shaking his head, and Nuada smirks.

“So says Loki Laufeyson, who cast an alien army upon a human city.”

“Brother!” Nuala cries.

He takes a sharp inhale, his anger already gnawing his entrails.

“So did I, indeed. And it was a mistake that I shall regret every day.”

He exhales and casts a look at Odin. The Allfather glares at the Prince.

“I refuse to interfere in Midgardian affairs”, he says in an icy tone. “Our relationship with Midgard is… complicated enough.”

Nuada gives a short, hard laugh.

“Since when have you been you so preoccupied with mortals? Is it because of Thor Odinson’s lover?”

“Listen –“, begins Thor.

“Your planet is already lost”, he cuts, not bothering to notice that Odin’s and Thor’s ire is growing. “Helping you isn’t even worth the cost.”

The Elven twins exchange a long look, seemingly taken aback, before Nuala dares to speak in a soft, cautious tone.

“Would you please explain what are you saying, Prince Loki?”

“A Titan aims to Midgard.”

The Silverlance prince scoffs.

“Is it another of your tricks, Loki Liesmith?”

His patience is wearing thin. This arrogant Elf won’t understand. So he leans slightly, and speaks in a soft, falsely-patient tone, as he would with a difficult child. He knows he is being rude with him, and it is _utterly_ delicious.

“Thanos, the Mad Titan, has held me prisoner for over a year. He has tortured me to no end. I know he is heading to Midgard, aiming to eradicate half of its inhabitants.”

“Excellent!” exclaims Nuada. “Then all we have to do is waiting for him and let him do what you refuse to help me to. There is no more diplomatic purpose to our visit, I reckon.”

“You don’t listen, do you?” he asks in an even sweeter tone. “I said ‘inhabitants’, I didn’t say ‘mankind’. That includes _you_.”

The Elf silently glares at him in disbelief, while his sister stares wide-eyed in awe.

_Good._

He takes a finale inhale and concludes.

“Midgard is already doomed. You will be lucky enough if both you and your twin survive.”

Nuada keeps silent, studying him.

“There must be a way to avoid this.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t stay here in Asgard if there was.”

“Well, I think we have exhausted the subject”, says Odin.

Loki straightens to stand but stops his motion as the Prince speaks once more.

“Actually, there is another purpose to our visit.”

He lets a silence stretch, comfortably leaning back in his sofa. Odin waves his hand as an invitation to speak.

“I want to talk about my sister’s marriage to Prince Loki.”

 _Ah. Finally_.

Immediately, he focuses on the Elf, his wits sharp and alert. He lifts his face and puts a curious and polite façade, smiling, his brows slightly raised.

Internally, he is nothing but turmoil and anger. This Elf is dangerous. Cold and sly. A snake. Sneaky, patient, waiting for his prey. He is relieved that Finna isn’t here. She was so shaken that her brother managed to come this close to her during the ball. She has had a fitful night, having once again a gruesome nightmare of her rape, and he has held her, shaking with sobs, until she cried herself to sleep.

“I would be lying if I said that this union rejoices me.”

No one answers. Odin and his sons are intently watching the Elven Prince, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“I must say that I am quite disappointed. For many reasons.”

“Would you care to explain?” asks Odin over-politely.

“First of all, I question the groom. You gave her to your lesser son. Loki _Laufeyson_ , born in Jötunnheimr. Why wouldn’t she wed your heir? Do you think us unworthy of your kin?”

Once again, his Jötunn origins. He had hoped to come to terms with the matter.

“I gave her Loki _Odinson_ ”, corrects the Allfather in a cold voice.

He releases a shaky breath. Odin surely has a purpose to side with him.

“She wouldn’t have me. She chose Loki”, Thor adds.

“Hmm. Did she, really? Then why isn’t she even here?”

Loki chuckles darkly. He perfectly knows where the Elf is leading the conversation to.

“This leads us to my second objection. I very much doubt that she freely consented to this union.”

_Here we are._

“Well, she did”, says Odin. “I spoke the proposal myself, and she gave me her consent.”

“You must admit that it all looks like she is being held captive. Where is she?”

Loki shrugs.

“I’d say she currently is in the training yards, practicing archery with her friends.”

“And why is she there, and not in this room, with us, her siblings?” he shouts, standing up straight.

Nuala takes his hand and cautiously pats it.

“Brother. You are losing your temper.”

He sighs and glares at him for a moment before sitting down.

“I, too, have a request about this alliance”, says Odin.

Loki’s gaze shoots to the Allfather.

_What is he up to?_

“When I gave her to my son, she didn’t bring any riches.” He lets a silence stretch for a few seconds, sure of his effect. “Now that you are here, we should discuss the question of her dowry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We should discuss your sister’s dowry. I would be satisfied with a reasonable amount of gold, for instance.”

Nuada scoffs disdainfully.

“Don’t mock me. My father never gave his consent, nor did I. There is nothing she could bring. This marriage is barely legal.”

Loki barks a laugh.

“Oh, I beg to differ. We have bonded with seiðr during the wedding ceremony. And believe me, this union has been thoroughly consummated.”

He reclines in his sofa, mischievously observing his rival. The Elf, already furious, glowers at him, heavily breathing through greeted teeth.

_Let’s push him just a bit further._

“Repeatedly”, he purrs with a smug grin.

Nuada stands abruptly and he follows suit, ready to fight. But the Elf holds back, his fists clenched and breath laboured. Nuala touches his hand but he jerks it away.

“Very well. I want to see her”, he manages to say after a few breaths, his voice unsteady with ire, “I want her to tell me if she is being held captive or not.”

“This is out of the question”, he snarls, “she doesn’t want to see _you_.”

Odin sighs in annoyance.

“There is no need for a cockfight. Loki, have a guard go fetch your wife.”

“Father –“

“It won’t be necessary”, Nuada interrupts in a now smooth, perfectly controlled voice. “Let her practice. She is quite skilled, isn’t she?”

He circles the sofa and stops behind his twin-sister, lightly resting a hand on her shoulder.

“I need to stretch my legs. Surely Prince Loki could show me the way to the training field. I would love to see my dearest Fionnghuala with a bow again.”

Oh, how he wants to smack this false smile from his pale face. Hold him down and beat him until his cheekbones and nose crack under his fists.

But when Odin agrees, all he can do is staying motionless for a few seconds, then reluctantly nod, feeling like he is betraying Finna.

She is on horseback, galloping, her mare as fast as the wind. The reins are tightened with a knot on the mare’s neck, and she doesn’t sit in her saddle, only slightly lifted up, her bust angled forward, her bow bent.

He has already seen her practicing archery, but this is new. Never has she practiced on horse. This makes her look like a warrior of old times, feminine and lethal, and he feels his chest expand with pride and his cock twitch at her sight.

_His pretty little Elf-warrior._

She shoots three arrows in a row, and lets a high-pitch cry of triumph, for she has hit the heads of the straw-dummies she’s been aiming at.

_Look how confident she is now, she who was broken when he met her. She who nearly broke last night._

Just as she stops her mount and jumps down, still holding her weapon, he walks towards her, but she draws her bow, aiming past him, with a look in her eyes that he has already seen. Repulsion and hatred.

“Never turn your back to _him_ , Loki. Move away.”

He turns to the Prince, who has stopped at the sight of his sister aiming her arrow directly on him. Slowly, step by step, he comes next to her, grateful when he spots Sif at her other side, in his peripheral vision. Thor is still close to the Elves.

“What is he doing here?” she asks, her gaze hard and jaw clenched.

Nuada lifts his hands in mock surrender, smiling at her.

“I wanted to talk to you, sweet sister-mine.”

“Odin demanded it”, he says lowly, in an apologetic manner.

“There is nothing to be said. I do not want to see you, nor to listen to you. Leave me be.”

Nuada chuckles darkly, taking one step to her, and she draws her string a little more.

“Don’t move!” she warns him.

“I know I frightened you. I should have explained to you, I should have prepared you.”

Now that is too much to endure. He stretches his fingers, his hands still down but ready to summon a seiðr blade out of thin air.

“Prepared her for what? For rape?” he asks incredulously. 

“I don’t expect you to understand, Liesmith.”

“Listen to you”, she snarls, “you can only say ‘I’, never thinking about anyone else.”

“How wrong you are. I’ve been thinking a lot about _you_ , dearest sister, since you left. I’ve been thinking a lot about this princeling of yours”, he spits, casting a malevolent side-glance on Loki, before he smiles, looking back at her in a sickening manner. _Like a lover_.

“I like it when you wear blue”, he says in his smooth, velvety voice, waving at her clothes. “You are always so beautiful in blue.”

“My arm is growing tired, you should leave before you get wounded.”

Nuada gives her an insolent smile, then walks a few steps backwards.

“See, sister-mine? I’m leaving you distance. Now come with us, come back with your kin. We’ve missed you so much.”

But she doesn’t loosen her bow. He can hear her breath and see that her strained muscles make her hands shake.

“Never!” she answers. “I will stay here with my husband.”

Nuada snorts. But her words have ended this issue, for now at least. She has expressed her refusal, and there were many witnesses. He stiffens a sigh of relief: now he has to help her out of her threats against her brother.

“I believe this is want you wanted to hear”, he says to the Elf. Laying a hand on his wife’s cramped shoulder, he softly adds, “Now put this bow down, flower.”

She whimpers, her breath shallow.

“I can’t, Loki. Help me.”

She’s exhausted, both from the physical effort and the tension of facing her sibling.

“Allow me”, he purrs, getting behind her and grasping the bow in one hand, her hand, the string and the arrow in the other, allowing her to slacken her muscles. Once he holds a solid grip on the weapon, she opens her fingers, letting him take control, and releases a shaky breath as she lets her arms down. He throws the bow back and trails his fingers on her arms, up to her shoulders.

“I have something to tend to with Odin”, he whispers, “and then I’ll meet you in our chambers.”

She nods, eyes down.

“What a lovely couple”, Nuada chuckles, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I bet you have fun with her. She’s tight as a fist.”

He sighs.

_Diplomacy be damned._

Nuada’s nose makes a very, _very_ satisfying cracking sound when his fist collides with it.


	14. The heath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dreams are powerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope you are all well.  
> I know I haven't posted since long. I have experienced author's block, until the muse came to visit me. Let's hope she will stay!  
> Thank you for reading and leaving kind comments.

Nuada’s nose makes a cracking sound when Loki’s fist collides with it.

“Loki, don’t!” she cries.

And the next moment, she’s shoved on the floor and only hears a thump, then another, almost simultaneously, as her husband and her brother brawl.

She stands up swiftly and wants to rush to Loki, but Sif gets between as protection and places both of her hands on her shoulders. Thor and Nuala are already intervening and manage to stop both of them. The Princes face each other, heaving, their eyes burning with pure hatred. They are armed. Loki has summoned daggers and Nuada holds a spear which shaft slowly reduces to the length of a sword pommel.

His magical silver-lance.

It is truly a wonder that her husband is not dead already. Nuada is a mighty, renowned, merciless warrior.

Thor grabs Loki’s shoulders and distances themselves from the Elves, while Nuala stands firmly in front of her twin, her hands on his chest, talking to him to calm him down. When they both turn their head to cast a look at her, she can see they are nose bleeding.

_How could she have forgotten?_

She rushes to Loki, freeing herself from Sif’s grasp, and gathers him in her arms. He closes an arm around her, cupping her jaw with his other hand to gaze intently at her, his brows furrowed with concern.

“Stop it, please! If you hurt him, you hurt her, too.”

He lightly shakes his head before he lifts his eyes past her, to her siblings. He doesn’t understand. How could he? He doesn’t know of the tight magical bond of the twins of Bethmoora.

“She is bleeding, too.”

“Does it mean that every injury he receives, she suffers from it?”

“Yes.”

He sighs and presses his lips in a thin line, keeping silent for a few moments. What is he thinking right now? His eyes flicker from her siblings to her. When finally he settles his gaze in hers, it is filled with sadness and – what is it she feels blooming in her chest?

His _guilt_. She is _feeling_ it.

_Oh, no, no._

“In that case, I can already offer you my deepest apology. Be sure I don’t intend to harm her.”

He is lying next to her, in the darkness of their bedroom, watching the ceiling with an arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around her body, fingers absent-mindedly stroking the skin of her hip. Her head is resting on his shoulder, her breath even. She is sound asleep after their coupling.

He is gnawing on feelings he knows too well.

Hatred.

Jealousy.

Guilt.

After he has been scolded by Odin for his lack of restraint – _What should have I done? Let him unleash his flood of insults and listen with a smile?_ – he found Nuala and Finna in his – their – chambers, sitting on the sofa hands in hands and their forehead pressed, whispering. Blinded by a sudden and renewed anger, he literally grabbed his sister-in-law and dragged her out of their rooms, slamming the door in her face.

“What was she doing here?” he snarled.

“She is my sister.”

“And, pray tell, what where you speaking of? And why were you practically cuddling the very sister who held you down while your brother –“

“Stop! Don’t say it!”

“Then do not protect them!”

She watched him with incredulity before she spoke lowly.

“They are not the ones I protected.”

“Who? Me?” he snapped with a bitter laugh. “I do not need your protection, _darling_. I am a God.”

As soon as he emphasized the word, he knew he was being unfair. She burst out with anger.

“Do not treat me like a child! Do not act like a child, yourself! He has come precisely to offend us, we knew that. Now act like a prince and not like a jealous little boy!”

“Don’t patronize me, Finna”, he growled, baring his teeth, and she shrugged in disdain.

His infuriating, delightful wife. Standing proud in front of him, just like when they were in the tower.

“Your jealousy is his best asset”, she added.

He knew she was right. As often.

“I protect my belongings.”

She gasped silently and looked at him with shock. He felt a pang of hurt. _Her_ pain, through their growing bond.

“Do you think you owe me?”

His stare hardened.

“You are my wife.”

“And so what?”

He didn’t want to argue with her. She was not the one to be rebuked. Yet his jealousy was getting the upper hand. He growled in a low and feral manner and smirked as he noticed her gasp. She was always aroused by the animal sounds he made. He decided to take advantage.

Now, lying with her in their bed, his guilt twirling in his chest, he only can think about how he has fucked her into submission. Giving her orgasm after orgasm until he made her say she was his. First with his tongue, then with his fingers, then with his cock – thrice. She positively was a mess when he growled it – _Say you are mine_ – and he heard her panted answer, astonished that she opposed no resistance to admit it. _I’m yours, I’m yours. You know it._

Something he had promised himself not to do, after he had seen her memories.

_“Oh, sweet sister mine, you feel so good. Now you are mine.”_

It makes him feel like the worst of men.

She stirs slightly in his arms and lets a small whimper. She is dreaming. He strokes her skin to placate her, and presses his lips on her forehead. She sighs.

He won’t tire of this. How could he get bored? Holding her at night, hearing the little noises she makes in her sleep, feeling the way she presses her body against his, this complete trust and abandon, it is precious to him. So precious. They have always slept like this, as soon as they have known each other, even though they weren’t lovers. It is part of their routine, of their relation. She helps him out of his nightmares, he helps her out of hers.

She presses herself a little more, hiking one leg over his thigh, and a small groan of satisfaction forms at the back of his throat. Then she stiffens in his arms, her breath shallow. He strokes her arm, patiently. When she whines and lets out a sob, he shakes her lightly to wake her, but she only stiffens more, totally rigid in his arms.

“Loki.”

“You are dreaming, flower, come back with me.”

“You come.”

He frowns. What is she saying? Pressing his arm tighter to her body, he shakes her a little more.

“Finna, wake up.”

A sob. And another.

“Wake up!”

“Nuada”, she mumbles, struggling against him.

He sits abruptly, still holding her in his arms, but she keeps sleeping, still resisting.

“Come help me”, she cries.

This is a trick from her brother. This snake. Pursuing them event in their sleep. So he takes a deep inhale, closes his eyes and follows Finna in her dream.

This is a cliff overseeing the sea, covered with purple heath and green fern. The sun shines bright and a cool breeze brings to him the salty smell of the spindrift, mixing it with the honeyed fragrance of the heather. _Finna’s scent_. This is too vivid to just be a dream. He feels the magic the Elf used to lure them here. An old and powerful magic, lingering in the air.

“At last, my new brother has joined us”, says Nuada’s voice, dark and smooth.

He turns and freezes as he spots him, holding Finna flush against his chest, a fist in her hair, his other arm around her body, his silver blade under her jaw.

“Release her!” he cries, summoning daggers.

But nothing happens. He can’t produce poniards and stares at his hands in disbelief, then at Finna, watching him with tearful eyes. Nuada chuckles darkly.

“You have no power here. This is _my_ dream.”

“What do you want?”

The Elf smiles confidently.

“I want my sister back. I want my world safe.”

“Never. She won’t have you and I won’t let her go.”

She wriggles against him and he tightens his grip. She gasps and freezes when the blade grazes the soft skin of her neck. She lets out a pained whimper and Loki watches in horror as bead of blood drip on the blue bodice of her dress.

“Stay still, sister-mine, I don’t intend to hurt you”, he purrs against her cheek.

As soon as Nuada releases slightly the pressure of his sword, he surges forward but two guards appear, seemingly out of nowhere, and something hard hits his hamstrings, forcing him down on a knee. They place their blades under his chin and he feels a third one on his nape. It must be this third guard that hit him from behind.

“Loki!” she cries.

He casts a murderous glance to the Elf Prince, then to the guards surrounding him. They are likely Elves, clothed in black, their heads concealed in huge beak-like helmets, dark hair flowing in their back. He hears the blades slide one against another and, lowering his eyes, he can see that the guards have indeed connected their swords, forming a triangle around his neck.

He feels his power drain. This ancient and potent magic exhausts his own capacities.

In fact, he hasn’t felt this powerless since he wore Odin’s cuffs, when he was wounded.

“Oh dear. Is this the Prince you whored yourself to for protection, sister-mine? How pathetic. A despicable decision.”

“I love him and I gave myself to him willingly. I don’t believe you can say the same.”

Nuada laughs darkly.

“Do not provoke me, sister-mine.”

“You heard her in the archery field”, Loki says. “She won’t go back with you, she made it very clear.”

“You don’t understand anything, Liesmith. You don’t know us.”

“You want to survive. This, I understand.”

He tries to rise on his feet, but an extra pressure of the blades dissuades him from moving further. He smiles bitterly, showing his hands in surrender.

“You are scaring your sister. She is terrified. I can _feel_ it. She is bound to me, and I to her by Sigyn’s magic.”

“I know. Nuala understood it before me.”

Hope blooms in his chest. He swallows thickly before demanding.

“Release her.”

“I need her.”

“What for?”

He dreads to hear the answer. To hear that he wants to sire an heir in her womb.

“Kiss me, sister-mine”, Nuada growls in her ear. “Kiss me like you kiss him, and I shall let him live for now.”

She swallows thickly, her throat working hard as she stares at Loki, a tear rolling on her cheek. He clenches his jaw.

 _It’s alright,_ _á_ _stin m_ _í_ _n._

_Just pretend._

_Lie to him._

_Are you sure?_ She asks in his mind.

Still holding her gaze, he faintly nods, and she presses her lips as she understands.

Slowly, she turns her face to Nuada, tilting her head to reach his mouth. She only presses her lips first, before she closes her eyes and leans in. As she parts her lips, Nuada takes advantage and delves his tongue in her mouth, growling in pleasure.

He is mesmerised at the sight of them. She actually answers the kiss, obeying to him, obeying to her brother’s demand. Even if she is saving his life, his jealousy is devouring him, biting his entrails like a poisonous snake.

And he hears her thoughts.

_I’m pretending I’m kissing you, my love. Forgive me._

Nuada eventually breaks the kiss, smirking.

“Bring me the weapon.”

“What?”

“Your Jötunn weapon. Bring it to me, and I shall reconsider my opinion about your marriage to Fionnghuala.”

This is insane. He wants the Casket of ancient winters. What for?

“What use could you have of it?”

“Loki, no, don’t bargain with him”, she implores.

Nuada smirks, feeling he’s getting the upper hand.

“I could restore the climate balance. Undo the humans’ misdeeds.”

This could work. Nuada won’t be able to use it, and he likely might be killed in the attempt. Only a Jötunn, only the rightful king of Jötunheimr could use it without being harmed. But the Elf doesn’t need to know of it.

“Alright. I will bring it to you, and you will free Finna.”

“Fionnghuala. Her name is Fionnghuala. Until then, I will keep her safe with me in Bethmoora.”

“No!”

He steps backwards, and she has no choice but to move with him, both hands clung on the arms grasping the blade.

“Come and seek me, husband!” she cries.

As he finally manages to move and stand, something hits him hard on the side of his head, and he can only think _Trust me, I will_ _come_ before he collapses on the ground, surrounded by darkness.

A ray of light passes through the curtains and lands right on his face, forcing him to crack an eye open. A dull ache in his head makes him wince and groan. He stirs, eager to wake up and shake the last memories of this awful nightmare.

Instinctively, he reaches with his hand for Finna, eager to feel her warm and supple body in his arms.

Nothing.

His eyes open at once as he turns his head to the cold sheets beside him.

He is alone in the bed.

A sprig of heather rests where she should have lain.


	15. Copses of Hazeltrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Finna meets her family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone.  
> I haven't forgotten this story.  
> It was just getting terribly predictable and I hated it. So I read, read, read, and waited for inspiration.  
> Here is the result.  
> I hope it is not so bad.

She shivers under her covers. The cold has woken her. Even before she cracks an eye open, she feels around in search of Loki, wondering why he doesn’t curl around her back. They always tangle in their sleep.

The sheets are cold.

And empty.

She jolts and sits in the bed, taking in her surroundings, and needs a few seconds to proceed what she is seeing. The walls. The furniture. She puts her hands on her mouth to muffle her cry of horror.

This is her old bedroom. In Bethmoora. Her underground room, with its carved ceiling figuring boughs and leaves filled with mechanical chirping birds that can actually chirp and flap their metal wings.

She has slept in her bed – in _that_ bed. And she jumps out of it, feeling sick, her stomach rebelling.

_No. No!_

She closes her eyes, choking on her feelings.

_Don’t panic._

_Breathe._

The nightmare. The moor. Loki on his knees, easily disarmed by three Raven guards.

Nuada has used Dream magic against her. Against them. Can she tell Father? Will he help her?

She walks on wobbly legs to her dresser and grabs its door to steady herself, closing her eyes, breathing with difficulty. Her dresses are still in there, as if she hadn’t left at all. She puts one, a very modest one, with long flowing sleeves and a high collar, and goes to the door opening on the corridor.

It opens, smoothly and silently pivoting on its hinges.

No guard stands outside.

She thought that her brother would use her room as a cell. That she would be kept in here just as much as Loki was kept in the tower, except that no one would be at her bedside. That no one would visit her but a Raven guard, thrice a day, to deposit a tray of food.

But she is free to move in the underground palace of Bethmoora.

And it is all the more unsettling.

She walks to her father’s private quarters and is allowed in there by the two guards standing outside the King’s chambers. They bend their helmets as a greeting and open the doors without any question.

Just as if she had been there the previous day.

This is odd. Very odd.

The old Elf is sitting at his table, reclining in his chair, absent-mindedly fidgeting with his food. He lifts his aged and worn face to her, as she passes the threshold.

“Ah Fionnghuala, dearest daughter. How relieved I am to see you again.”

She goes to her father and kneels next to him, taking his good hand in her fingers, pressing her brow against his knuckles in deference.

“Father, help me.”

His metal hand pats her shoulder, in a soothing gesture.

“You are safe here. No one will harm you anymore.”

No one? He doesn’t understand.

“My poor daughter, I can’t imagine much you must have suffered in the paws of the Jotunn.”

She frowns and lifts her face to meet his eyes. They are filled with concern and sorrow.

“I wish we had known earlier where you were. Nuada struggled to find you.”

“No, father, I didn’t suffer in Asgard. Quite the contrary, I must say. I found refuge there.”

“What are you talking about? How could you? They abducted you.”

“What? No!”

Her father gives her a long, hard stare.

“Didn’t Odin force you to marry the Jotunn?” he drawls.

She takes a breath. How many lies have spread in her father’s mind? Who sowed them?

She stands and takes a chair, approaching it to have an informal conversation with him.

“Odin spoke the proposal and I gave my consent.”

“Under duress, undoubtedly.”

She can only press her lips and shake her head.

“Father, I – you must understand. Loki and I –“

She wants to say that they were lovers even before marriage, but she can’t. He won’t understand that she could have taken a lover. The twins can, but not her, the pure, chaste, innocent younger child.

“Loki and I are bound. I love him and he loves me.”

The old king gives her a look full of pity.

“My poor girl. I do believe you. If he hasn’t been too cruel with you, you might have developed, then nourished feelings for him. Just to feel less lonely and miserable.”

She frowns. Is he right? Loki might have been one of the few Asgardian to bother to talk to her without prejudice. To make her feel comfortable, despite his being demanding.

“I love him, Father.”

Footsteps resonate behind her. Unmistakable footsteps, full of self-confidence and determination, followed by a ruffle of silks. She shivers in horror.

“Please, Father, protect me. I’m begging you, protect me!” she whispers urgently to the old King.

The footsteps stop, chairs are briefly trailed.

“Hello, sister-mine. Did you sleep well?”

Nuada’s smooth voice dripping with raillery makes her shiver uncontrollably. She stands abruptly and turns to face him.

_Never turn your back to him._

He is sprawling in his chair, reclining on one side, his long legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, his fingers intertwined and resting on his belly. He watches her with his dark-golden eyes deeply hidden under his brow bones, a lopsided grin on his dark lips. Nuala sits near him, straight and composed.

“Naturally, we will protect you, dearest”, the Prince says.

She feels nauseous. He always manages to take advantage of all situations.

“I don’t want _your_ protection”, she chokes. “You brought me here against my will. I want to go back to Asgard.”

He grunts derisively.

“You will, when time comes.”

“When Loki comes.”

He chuckles darkly.

Nuala lays a hand on his arm.

“Don’t tease her, Brother. You are scaring her.”

Their father’s gaze goes from the twins to her.

“It is not your husband you are afraid of, Fionnghuala. Speak to me.”

She meets Nuada’s burning stare and swallows with difficulty, casting her eyes down. Barely able to breathe. Can she talk about it to her father? Can she say it aloud? Her lips tremble, she can’t even mouth the words.

“Speak, Fionnghuala”, says her father again.

She can’t. She isn’t ready.

Her emotions are going to overflow her, threatening to drown her.

Shame, for she has been defiled. Terror at being so close to her tormentors. Helplessness, for she can’t manage to break her silence.

And worst, a lingering sense of loyalty to the heir of the throne urges her to keep silent.

She flinches when a hand sets on her shoulders. Nuala, whom she hasn’t heard coming.

“Come sit, sister. You’ll speak when you are able.”

_Liars, both of them._

She feels sick.

“I can’t breathe. I need fresh air.”

Nuala sets her keen eyes in hers and tilts her head, lightly frowning.

Obviously trying to read her mind.

Unable to tolerate it, she gathers her skirts and strides towards the door.

“You can have a stroll in the open, dearest”, calls Nuada’s husky voice. “I trust magical creatures to protect you.”

She feels defeated.

Of course, he would take precautions to avoid her fleeing again.

She goes out all the same, as far as Nuada allows her to roam around the palace, and Nature manages to alleviate her distress.

A weeping willow makes its leaves shimmer in the sunlight of this vernal day, its branches moving with no wind. She watches it, approaching close enough to fondle its bark with her fingertips, and the tree shivers more, softly murmuring to her. She climbs in its boughs, and a branch cradles her, just like when she was a young motherless Elf, millennia ago. There, she closes her eyes and focuses on him. Her husband, her mate. He is full of anger and fear. Feral with distress. So she opens her heart to him, filling it with love and trust.

_I know you are coming._

_I trust you._

Nuada used Dream-magic on Loki and her. She remembers falling asleep with her husband, after he had been so – possessive – and she had been compliant to him, giving him the love he craved and deserved. And then, the Dream had begun, and it had been so terrifying to see Loki helpless on his knees, easily overpowered by the three Raven guards.

This is what scares her the most. She fears that the ancient magic of Bethmoora could effortlessly sweep Loki’s powers. She fears that he has underestimated Nuada’s magic and skills.

Birds have gathered around her. Blue tits, goldfinches and warblers. “There can be hope”, they chirp, and the willow shivers, agreeing with them.

“How?” she whispers, and her heart tightens and squeezes in unbearable pain. She can’t see hope in here. She’s to be a bait for Loki. Nuada will kill him and she’ll have to endure loneliness and memories for all eternity.

A lark perches on her knee and chirps, than flutters about on the bough, comes back on her knee, flits again. It tilts its head.

“Come”, it seems to say, and she follows the bird.

The trees greet her with whispers as she passes under their shadow, and she smiles at them, caressing their bark with light fingers, following the lark down in a vale. Hazels grow there, high and thick, yet supple and green. A magical barrier. She knows of this place and of the nine hazels copses guarding a very old pond.

“Ah, here you are, my dear”, says a clear voice.

She approaches, moving the leaves aside, and discovers a feminine form casually reclined in the shallow water, crowned with water lilies and yellow irises, her long, green hair cascading on her shoulder and sprawling in the water like waterweeds. A diaphanous, sleeveless dress reveals her body more than it covers it as the soaked fabric clings on her pale skin. Are there scales on her shoulders? She can’t remember her having scales.

“Boann”, she says as a greeting. “It’s been a long time.”

She hasn’t met her in centuries.

When she was a child, there had been non followed up negotiations to betroth her to Nuada, before his exile.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful Elf”, the water nymph says, and she turns on her hip, propping herself on one elbow to have a good look at Finna. Her eyes are the deep colour of bronze, fanned with long, dark eyelashes, and iridescent scales line her brows. Her lips curl in an aristocratic pout. What is she thinking of? She must be judging her, and Finna straightens, lifting her chin just as if Loki was here, whispering in her ear to reassure her.

_Chin high, flower. You are royalty._

But Boann isn’t insignificant.

She’s a very ancient water-fae, and a powerful one.

Humans revered her as a goddess, centuries ago.

Well, they revered Nuada as a god, too.

“Is it true, what they say?”

She frowns.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did the Asgardians serve you up to the ice-monster?”

 _Oh_.

Is this what the Faerie people think of Loki?

“No, they didn’t.”

“Tell me, then.”

She frowns. She barely knows her. What could she tell her?

She opens her lips and takes a breath to speak, but stops in her tracks and keeps silent, mouth closed.

“Please, sit”, says Boann softly.

She obeys, crouching in the lush grass surrounding the pond, then sitting in it, circling her shins with her arms.

Boann stands in the water and slowly approaches. Her white dress clings to her skin, revelling full breasts and a slight bump.

 _Oh_.

She’s with child.

She sits next to her, exposing her back to the sunlight, and gives her a smile.

“What do you want to know?”

“It is said that the Asgardians abducted you, that Odin forced you to marry his second son, the one who tried to conquer Earth.”

She shakes her head, smiling sadly.

“No, it’s wrong.”

To Boann, she can tell it. She doesn’t care about what she’ll think. She smiles to herself, remembering their first morning. The sunlight on his pale skin as she rode him. The warmth and tenderness in his eyes.

“We were lovers before we married.”

“Were you? What a shocking scandal!” exclaims the water-fae in mock outrage, and they giggle together.

Her laughter stops when she remembers that she fled after what could be qualified as a ‘shocking scandal’, too. That Heimdall, obeying Frigga’s orders, opened the Bifrost to bring her to the Realm Eternal.

She looked a mess when she fell without elegance in the observatory, her clothes drenched, her hair dangling and dripping, a bruise on her cheek. She had discovered the worst as a maid had led her to a bath, a mix of her dried blood and Nuada’s seed on the skin of her inner thighs. She had vainly fought her nausea, vomiting in vain the non-existent content of her empty stomach.

She takes a deep breath and shakes the memory. She doesn’t want to drown in it. Loki is healing her just like she’s healing him.

Setting her eyes on the grass she’s sitting on, she can see it covered with flowers. Bluebells, wood anemones, greater stitchwort. They are beautiful, both fragile and full of life.

She’s been taught that it is rude to keep silent. What a shame. With Loki, she never has to force herself to speak. She did, at the beginning. But soon she found that they could enjoy each other’s presence in perfect quiet, and never be bored. Yet she makes herself pleasant.

“When is the birth expected?”

Expecting mothers are always happy to speak about their babies.

“End of summer. He’ll be born when the fruit are ripe.”

“He?”

Boann smiles.

“He is the reason I didn’t go to Asgard.”

_What?_

_What is she talking about?_

_What would Boann do in Asgard?_

She doesn’t understand. At all.

“I – um – you’ve lost me there.”

“Nuada didn’t want me to travel because I’m pregnant.”

“Nuada?”

She can’t catch it. She feels like a perfect idiot. Something escapes her and she looks like a fool. Or like a child.

Her family always treated her like a child, never telling her about important matters.

Just like this one.

“There are things that I – am not – aware of.”

“Obviously”, smiles the water-fae.

But she isn’t scoffing.

She looks quite benevolent.

So she tries to ask her question, as absurd as it may sound.

“Is Nuada the father of your child?”

Boann smiles again.

“Why, yes, he is.”

She feels dizzy and weak.

“Did he – did he –“

She cannot bring herself to finish her sentence.

_– rape you?_

“Marry me? Yes, at long last. During the Winter Solstice celebrations.”

She gets up abruptly, her legs feeling weak and wobbly.

Why?

Why did he wed the water-fae? To what purpose?

Why has he hurt her so much? Why did he – she makes herself use the right word – rape her ?

Why must she suffer so much? For nothing, if he was going to marry and sire a child?

For she can’t imagine that he didn’t know, back at that time, that a marriage was planed between Boann and him. And still, he forced himself upon her.

She can’t breathe.

She tries to inhale with a wheezy sound, but only feels like she’s choking.

“Fionnghuala?” asks the water-fae, gripping her shoulders. She bolts backwards, her vision white with panic.

Her instincts tell her to flee. And so she does. Spinning around, she leaps through the hedge of hazeltrees, the branches whipping her face, and runs in the undergrowth, aimless, only running fast and forward.

Just like last time.

Except that Nuada’s hounds are not after her.

Except that when she reaches a clearing in which centre is growing an ancient yew-tree, she feels magic, and understand she has fallen into a trap. Ivy grows on each tree surrounding the clearing, closing it, preventing her escape.

She’s imprisoned.

She stiffens, trying to catch her breath, and careful studies her surroundings. Only heavy curtains of interlaced ivy bines are to be seen. She approaches carefully and tries to touch one. It only grows and thickens, sprouting sprigs that intertwine inextricably.

There must be a solution.

Taking a few steps, she stumbles and falls on her knees in the middle of bluebells and wood anemones.

Then she tilts her face to the sky.

 _Heimdall_ , she thinks.

And just as she inhales to call the Watcher with all the force of her lungs, she hears the whispers of leaves on her left, and feels magic. _His_ magic.

She closes her eyes, her head hanging in defeat as she listens to her brother’s footsteps in the grass and flowers.

“I told you magical creatures would look after you.”

His voice is not even dripping with sarcasm. He sounds open and friendly. Could his non-sounding victorious be his supreme degree of gloating?

He stops next to her.

“I’d rather kill myself than letting you touch me again”, she says.

“I know. I won’t lay a hand on you, you have my word.”

“How could I trust you?”

Because she can’t. Not after what she endured from him.

He crouches next to her, his wrists resting on his knees, his hands dangling.

“I am not the ruthless beast you see in me. I would never commit such a sacrilege.”

She lifts her eyes to his, unsure of what he means. He watches her intently, his golden eyes glinting with respect and awe, and for a moment, she almost forgets he ruined her and she ran away from him.

“I regret that I hurt you so much. That I scared you so much.”

“I don’t want your apologies”, she says weakly. “After what you’ve done to me, you still came to my refuge and kidnapped me. You _are_ a monster.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“You don’t understand my motivations. I’m trying to save us. I need the Jotunn weapon.”

“He won’t give it to you.”

He snorts lightly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, were I you. He seems to be quite fond of you.”

This is an understatement, they both know it. He counts on their bond to force Loki to come to Bethmoora.

“He won’t help you, Nuada. He aims to kill you.”

He groans lightly.

“But now I have to persuade him not to”, she adds, and he gives her a curious look. “Would you care to tell me about Boann?”

He sighs, and sits next to her. She shifts in a comfortable position, too. It is almost like they are back to their sibling relation, before he assaulted her. Once again, she feels that she has suffered in vain.

“There had been rumours of a marriage, but I turned a deaf ear to it. Father – father sent me after you. I was away for two months. And when I came back unsuccessful, the wedding party was waiting for me in the throne room.”

He swallows, his eyes guarded.

“She was watching me, beautiful and expectant. As if we had been betrothed for too long.”

He circles his shins with his arms.

“Father trapped me”, he murmurs after a silence.

“Do you treat her well?”

He nods.

“Better than me?”

He gives her a painful look, and she hardens against it, her lips tightly pressed.

“I regret, Fionnghuala. I deeply regret the way I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me. You ruined me. I couldn’t stand to be in presence of a male for weeks. Wouldn’t have it been for Loki, I would have driven mad.”

His head drops.

“I know I am beyond forgiveness”, he sighs.

“You are. How did you find me?”

He focuses on her, his eyes narrow.

“It’s very simple. I sent a few scouting groups here and there. The one that went in Asgard didn’t come back.”

She watches him in silence, proceeding his words.

“We killed them. Loki and I.”

“Did you?”

She nods, hesitant.

“Two of them kept Loki busy while the third meant to seize me. I… stabbed him in the neck.”

And in the eye.

_Oh, by the ancient gods._

_So much blood._

Surprise and admiration mix in his eyes.

“This is no small task. Did you train?”

She nods again, with more conviction.

“Each and every day.” Then, weakly, “It was all useless in the end.”

“Because you’re here?” he asks, chuckling playfully.

She casts him a worried glance. What is he up to?

“I cheated”, he confesses with a lopsided grin. “Nevertheless, your prowess with the bow was quite impressive. You improved so much.”

Once again, he behaves like her brother.

He stands up and offers her a hand to help her. Ignoring him, she gets upright and smooths the lines of her dress. Were there so many bluebells and anemones when she entered the clearing?

“Let us go back to the palace, sister. Are you hungry? Do you need to rest?”

Nuada understands, now, that she won’t come back to their family. That her relation with Loki is indissoluble. This realization makes him somehow softer to her. Still he keeps her as a hostage, for he wants the Jotunn-iceweapon.

This worries her more than the danger she could risk at her brother’s hand.

“Why should I need rest?” she asks, uncertain.

He shrugs in a unprincely manner.

“You tell me.”

She doesn’t understand. She’s had enough of his little games.

Thunder rolls in the valley. She lifts her head, flaring her nostrils.

“Loki”, she whispers.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Please let me know what you think!


End file.
